THE  NOVELS  OF 
IVAN  TURGENEV 


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THE    NOVELS   OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 

VOLUME   XIII 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

nVAN    TURGENEV 

'  Complete  in  Fifteen  Volumes. 

i.  Rudin. 

ii.  A  House  of  Gentlefolk. 

iii.  On  the  Eve. 

iv.  Fathers  and  Children. 

V.  Smoke. 

vi.  &  vii.  Virgin  Soil.     2  Vols. 

viii.  &  ix.  A  Sportsm,arC s  Sketches.     2  Vols. 

X.  Dream  Tales  and  Prose  Poems. 

xi.  The  Torrents  oj  Spring  and  other  Stories. 

xii.  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  and  other  Stories. 

xiii.  The  Diary  of  a  Superfluous  Man  and  other 

Stories. 

xiv.  A  Desperate  Character  and  other  Tales.    \Septemher 

XV.  The  Jew  and  other  Stories.  [November 

NEW  YORK 
M ACM  ILL  AN  AND  CO. 


THE  DIARY  OF  A 
SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 

BY 

IVAN    TURGENEV 

Translated  from  the  Russian 
By  CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

1899 


All  rights  reserved. 


/?/5- 

n¥? 

CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE    DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS    MAN, 

3 

A   TOUR    IN    THE   FOREST, 

lOI 

YAKOV   PASINKOV, 

137 

ANDREI   KOLOSOV, 

213 

A  CORRESPONDENCE,  . 

267 

THE  DIARY   OF 
A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


.-rrmia,^^ 


■/ 


THE  DIARY  OF 

A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

Village  of  Sheep's  Springs, 
March  20,  18 — . 

The  doctor  has  just  left  me.  At  last  I  have 
got  at  something  definite  !  For  all  his  cunning, 
he  had  to  speak  out  at  last.  Yes,  I  am  soon, 
very  soon,  to  die.  The  frozen  rivers  will  break 
up,  and  with  the  last  snow  I  shall,  most  likely, 
swim  away  .  .  .  whither  ?  God  knows  !  To 
the  ocean  too.  Well,  well,  since  one  must  die, 
one  may  as  well  die  in  the  spring.  But  isn't  it 
absurd  to  begin  a  diary  a  fortnight,  perhaps, 
before  death  ?  What  does  it  matter  ?  And  by 
how  much  are  fourteen  days  less  than  fourteen 
years,  fourteen  centuries  ?  Beside  eternity, 
they  say,  all  is  nothingness — yes,  but  in  that 
case  eternity,  too,  is  nothing.  I  see  I  am  let- 
ting myself  drop  into  metaphysics ;  that 's  a 
bad  sign — am  I  not  rather  faint-hearted,  per- 
chance? I  had  better  begin  a  description  of 
some  sort.     It's  damp  and  windy  out  of  doors. 

3 


THE   DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

I  'm  forbidden  to  go  out.  What  can  I  write 
about,  then  ?  No  decent  man  talks  of  his 
maladies  ;  to  write  a  novel  is  not  in  my  line  ; 
reflections  on  elevated  topics  are  beyond  me  ; 
descriptions  of  the  life  going  on  around  me 
could  not  even  interest  me ;  while  I  am  weary 
of  doing  nothing,  and  too  lazy  to  read.  Ah, 
I  have  it,  I  will  write  the  story  of  all  my  life 
for  myself.  A  first-rate  idea !  Just  before 
death  it  is  a  suitable  thing  to  do,  and  can  be 
of  no  harm  to  any  one.     I  will  begin. 

I  was  born  thirty  years  ago,  the  son  of  fairly 
well-to-do  landowners.  My  father  had  a  passion 
for  gambling  ;  my  mother  was  a  woman  of 
character  ...  a  very  virtuous  woman.  Only, 
I  have  known  no  woman  whose  moral  excel- 
lence was  less  productive  of  happiness.  She 
was  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  her  own 
virtues,  and  was  a  source  of  misery  to  every  one, 
from  herself  upwards.  In  all  the  fifty  years 
of  her  life,  she  never  once  took  rest,  or  sat  with 
her  hands  in  her  lap  ;  she  was  for  ever  fussing 
and  bustling  about  like  an  ant,  and  to  abso- 
lutely no  good  purpose,  which  cannot  be  said 
of  the  ant.  The  worm  of  restlessness  fretted 
her  night  and  day.  Only  once  I  saw  her  per- 
fectly tranquil,  and  that  was  the  day  after  her 
death,  in  her  coffin.  Looking  at  her,  it  posi- 
tively seemed  to  me  that   her   face  wore   an 

4 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

expression  of  subdued  amazement ;  with  the 
half-open  lips,  the  sunken  cheeks,  and  meekly- 
staring  eyes,  it  seemed  expressing,  all  over,  the 
words,  '  How  good  to  be  at  rest ! '  Yes,  it  is 
good,  good  to  be  rid,  at  last,  of  the  wearing  sense 
of  life,  of  the  persistent,  restless  consciousness 
of  existence !  But  that 's  neither  here  nor 
there. 

I  was  brought  up  badly  and  not  happily. 
My  father  and  mother  both  loved  me ;  but 
that  made  things  no  better  for  me.  My  father 
was  not,  even  in  his  own  house,  of  the  slightest 
authority  or  consequence,  being  a  man  openly 
abandoned  to  a  shameful  and  ruinous  vice ;  he 
was  conscious  of  his  degradation,  and  not 
having  the  strength  of  will  to  give  up  his 
darling  passion,  he  tried  at  least,  by  his  invari- 
ably amiable  and  humble  demeanour  and  his 
unswerving  submissiveness,  to  win  the  conde- 
scending consideration  of  his  exemplary  wife. 
My  mother  certainly  did  bear  her  trial  with 
the  superb  and  majestic  long-suffering  of  virtue, 
in  which  there  is  so  much  of  egoistic  pride.  She 
never  reproached  my  father  for  anything,  gave 
him  her  last  penny,  and  paid  his  debts  without 
a  word.  He  exalted  her  as  a  paragon  to  her 
face  and  behind  her  back,  but  did  not  like 
to  be  at  home,  and  caressed  me  by  stealth, 
as   though   he   were   afraid   of    contaminating 

5 


THE   DIARY   OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

me  by  his  presence.  But  at  such  times  his 
distorted  features  were  full  of  such  kindness, 
the  nervous  grin  on  his  lips  was  replaced  by- 
such  a  touching  smile,  and  his  brown  eyes, 
encircled  by  fine  wrinkles,  shone  with  such  love, 
that  I  could  not  help  pressing  my  cheek  to  his, 
which  was  wet  and  warm  with  tears.  I  wiped 
away  those  tears  with  my  handkerchief,  and 
they  flowed  again  without  effort,  like  water 
from  a  brimming  glass.  I  fell  to  crying,  too, 
and  he  comforted  me,  stroking  my  back  and 
kissing  me  all  over  my  face  with  his  quivering 
lips.  Even  now,  more  than  twenty  years  after 
his  death,  when  I  think  of  my  poor  father,  dumb 
sobs  rise  into  my  throat,  and  my  heart  beats  as 
hotly  and  bitterly  and  aches  with  as  poignant 
a  pity  as  if  it  had  long  to  go  on  beating,  as 
if  there  were  anything  to  be  sorry  for ! 

My  mother's  behaviour  to  me,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  always  the  same,  kind,  but  cold.  In 
children's  books  one  often  comes  across  such 
mothers,  sermonising  and  just.  She  loved 
me,  but  I  did  not  love  her.  Yes  !  I  fought  shy 
of  my  virtuous  mother,  and  passionately  loved 
my  vicious  father. 

But  enough  for  to-day.  It's  a  beginning, 
and  as  for  the  end,  whatever  it  may  be,  I 
needn't  trouble  my  head  about  it.  That 's  for 
my  illness  to  see  to. 

6 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


March  21. 

To-day  it  is  marvellous  weather.  Warm, 
bright ;  the  sunshine  frolicking  gaily  on  the 
melting  snow;  everything  shining,  steaming, 
dripping  ;  the  sparrows  chattering  like  mad 
things  about  the  drenched,  dark  hedges. 
Sweetly  and  terribly,  too,  the  moist  air  frets 
my  sick  chest.  Spring,  spring  is  coming!  I 
sit  at  the  window  and  look  across  the  river  into 
the  open  country.  O  nature !  nature  !  I  love 
thee  so,  but  I  came  forth  from  thy  womb  good 
for  nothing — not  fit  even  for  life.  There  goes 
a  cock-sparrow,  hopping  along  with  outspread 
wings  ;  he  chirrups,  and  every  note,  every 
ruffled  feather  on  his  little  body,  is  breathing 
with  health  and  strength.  .  .  . 

What  follows  from  that?  Nothing.  He  is 
well  and  has  a  right  to  chirrup  and  ruffle  his 
wings  ;  but  I  am  ill  and  must  die — that 's  all. 
It's  not  worth  while  to  say  more  about  it. 
And  tearful  invocations  to  nature  are  mortally 
absurd.     Let  us  get  back  to  my  story. 

I  was  brought  up,  as  I  have  said,  very  badly 
and  not  happily.  I  had  no  brothers  or  sisters. 
I  was  educated  at  home.  And,  indeed,  what 
would  my  mother  have  had  to  occupy  her,  if 
I  had  been   sent    to  a   boarding-school   or   a 

7 


THE  DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

government  college  ?  That 's  what  children 
are  for — that  their  parents  may  not  be  bored. 
We  lived  for  the  most  part  in  the  country,  and 
sometimes  went  to  Moscow.  I  had  tutors  and 
teachers,  as  a  matter  of  course ;  one,  in  par- 
ticular, has  remained  in  my  memory,  a  dried-up, 
tearful  German,  Rickmann,  an  exceptionally 
mournful  creature,  cruelly  maltreated  by 
destiny,  and  fruitlessly  consumed  by  an  in- 
tense pining  for  his  far-off  fatherland.  Some- 
times, near  the  stove,  in  the  fearful  stuffiness 
of  the  close  ante-room,  full  of  the  sour  smell  of 
stale  kvas,  my  unshaved  man-nurse,  Vassily, 
nicknamed  Goose,  would  sit,  playing  cards 
with  the  coachman,  Potap,  in  a  new  sheepskin, 
white  as  foam,  and  superb  tarred  boots,  while 
in  the  next  room  Rickmann  would  sing,  behind 
the  partition — 

'  Herz,  mein  Herz,  warum  so  traurig  ? 
Was  bekiimmert  dich  so  sehr  ? 
'Sist  ja  schon  im  fremden  Lande — 
Herz,  mein  Herz — was  willst  du  mehr?' 

After  my  father's  death  we  moved  to  Moscow 
for  good.  I  was  twelve  years  old.  My  father 
died  in  the  night  from  a  stroke.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  night.  I  was  sleeping  soundly,  as 
children  generally  do  ;  but  I  remember,  even 
in  my  sleep,  I   was  aware  of  a  heavy  gasping 

8 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

noise  at  regular  intervals.  Suddenly  I  felt 
some  one  taking  hold  of  my  shoulder  and 
poking  me.  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  my 
nurse.  'What  is  it?'  '  Come  along,  come  along, 
Alexey  Mihalitch  is  dying.'  ...  I  was  out  of 
bed  and  away  like  a  mad  thing  into  his  bed- 
room. I  looked  :  my  father  was  lying  with 
his  head  thrown  back,  all  red,  and  gasping 
fearfully.  The  servants  were  crowding  round 
the  door  with  terrified  faces  ;  in  the  hall  some 
one  was  asking  in  a  thick  voice :  '  Have  they 
sent  for  the  doctor?'  In  the  yard  outside,  a 
horse  was  being  led  from  the  stable,  the  gates 
were  creaking,  a  tallow  candle  was  burning  in 
the  room  on  the  floor,  my  mother  was  there, 
terribly  upset,  but  not  oblivious  of  the  pro- 
prieties, nor  of  her  own  dignity.  I  flung  myself 
on  my  father's  bosom,  and  hugged  him,  falter- 
ing :  '  Papa,  papa  .  .  .'  He  lay  motionless, 
screwing  up  his  eyes  in  a  strange  way.  I 
looked  into  his  face — an  unendurable  horror 
caught  my  breath ;  I  shrieked  with  terror,  like 
a  roughly  captured  bird — they  picked  me  up 
and  carried  me  away.  Only  the  day  before, 
as  though  aware  his  death  was  at  hand,  he  had 
caressed  me  so  passionately  and  despondently. 
A  sleepy,  unkempt  doctor,  smelling  strongly 
of  spirits,  was  brought.  My  father  died  under  his 
lancet,  and  the  next  day,  utterly  stupefied  by 

9 


THE   DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

grief,  I  stood  with  a  candle  in  my  hands  before 
a  table,  on  which  lay  the  dead  man,  and  listened 
senselessly  to  the  bass  sing-song  of  the  deacon, 
interrupted  from  time  to  time  by  the  weak 
voice  of  the  priest.  The  tears  kept  streaming 
over  my  cheeks,  my  lips,  my  collar,  my  shirt- 
front.  I  was  dissolved  in  tears ;  I  watched 
persistently,  I  watched  intently,  my  father's 
rigid  face,  as  though  I  expected  something 
of  him  ;  while  my  mother  slowly  bowed  down 
to  the  ground,  slowly  rose  again,  and  pressed 
her  fingers  firmly  to  her  forehead,  her  shoulders, 
and  her  chest,  as  she  crossed  herself.  I  had 
not  a  single  idea  in  my  head  ;  I  was  utterly 
numb,  but  I  felt  something  terrible  was  happen- 
ing to  me.  .  .  .  Death  looked  me  in  the  face 
that  day  and  took  note  of  me. 

We  moved  to  Moscow  after  my  father's  death 
for  a  very  simple  cause  :  all  our  estate  was  sold 
up  by  auction  for  debts — that  is,  absolutely  all, 
except  one  little  village,  the  one  in  which  I 
am  at  this  moment  living  out  my  magnificent 
existence.  I  must  admit  that,  in  spite  of  my 
youth  at  the  time,  I  grieved  over  the. sale  of  our 
home,  or  rather,  in  reality,  I  grieved  over  our 
garden.  Almost  m'y  only  bright  memories 
are  associated  with  our  garden.  It  was  there 
that  one  mild  spring  evening  I  buried  my  best 
friend,    an    old  bob-tailed,   crook-pawed    dog, 

lO 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Trix.  It  was  there  that,  hidden  in  the  long 
grass,  I  used  to  eat  stolen  apples — sweet,  red, 
Novgorod  apples  they  were.  There,  too,  I 
saw  for  the  first  time,  among  the  ripe  raspberry 
bushes,  the  housemaid  Klavdia,  who,  in  spite  of 
her  turned-up  nose  and  habit  of  giggling  in  her 
kerchief,  aroused  such  a  tender  passion  in  me 
that  I  could  hardly  breathe,  and  stood  faint 
and  tongue-tied  in  her  presence  ;  and  once  at 
Easter,  when  it  came  to  her  turn  to  kiss  my 
seignorial  hand,  I  almost  flung  myself  at  her 
feet  to  kiss  her  down-trodden  goat-skin  slippers. 
My  God  !  Can  all  that  be  twenty  years  ago  ? 
It  seems  not  long  ago  that  I  used  to  ride  on 
my  shaggy  chestnut  pony  along  the  old  fence 
of  our  garden,  and,  standing  up  in  the  stirrups, 
used  to  pick  the  two-coloured  poplar  leaves. 
While  a  man  is  living  he  is  not  conscious  of 
his  own  life ;  it  becomes  audible  to  him,  like 
a  sound,  after  the  lapse  of  time. 

Oh,  my  garden,  oh,  the  tangled  paths  by  the 
tiny  pond  !  Oh,  the  little  sandy  spot  below  the 
tumbledown  dike,  where  I  used  to  catch  gud- 
geons !  And  you  tall  birch-trees,  with  long 
hanging  branches,  from  beyond  which  came 
floating  a  peasant's  mournful  song,  broken  by 
the  uneven  jolting  of  the  cart,  I  send  you  my 
last  farewell !  .  .  .  On  parting  with  life,  to  you 
alone  I  stretch  out  my  hands.     Would  I  might 

II 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

once  more  inhale  the  fresh,  bitter  fragrance  of 
the  wormwood,  the  sweet  scent  of  the  mown 
buckwheat  in  the  fields  of  my  native  place ! 
Would  I  might  once  more  hear  far  away  the 
modest  tinkle  of  the  cracked  bell  of  our  parish 
church  ;  once  more  lie  in  the  cool  shade  under 
the  oak  sapling  on  the  slope  of  the  familiar 
ravine ;  once  more  watch  the  moving  track  of 
the  wind,  flitting,  a  dark  wave  over  the 
golden  grass  of  our  meadow!  .  .  .  Ah,  what's 
the  good  of  all  this?  But  I  can't  go  on  to-day. 
Enough  till  to-morrow. 


12 


THE   DIARY   OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

V  -J 

March  11. 

To-day  it 's  cold  and  overcast  again.  Such 
weather  is  a  great  deal  more  suitable.  It's 
more  in  harmony  with  my  task.  Yesterday, 
quite  inappropriately,  stirred  up  a  multitude 
of  useless  emotions  and  memories  within  me. 
This  shall  not  occur  again.  Sentimental  out- 
breaks are  like  liquorice ;  when  first  you  suck 
it,  it 's  not  bad,  but  afterwards  it  leaves  a  very 
nasty  taste  in  the  mouth.  I  will  set  to  work 
simply  and  serenely  to  tell  the  story  of  my  life. 
And  so,  we  moved  to  Moscow.  .  .  . 

But  it  occurs  to  me,  is  it  really  worth  while 
to  tell  the  story  of  my  life  ? 

No,  it  certainly  is  not.  .  .  .  My  life  has  not 
been  different  in  any  respect  from  the  lives  of 
numbers  of  other  people.  The  parental  home, 
the  university,  the  government  service  in  the 
lower  grades,  retirement,  a  little  circle  of  friends, 
decent  poverty,  modest  pleasures,  unambitious 
pursuits,  moderate  desires — kindly  tell  me,  is 
that  new  to  any  one?  And  so  I  will  not  tell 
the  story  of  my  life,  especially  as  I  am  writing 
for  my  own  pleasure  ;  and  if  my  past  does  not 
afford  even  me  any  sensation  of  great  pleasure 
or  great  pain,  it  must  be  that  there  is  nothing 
in  it  deserving  of  attention.     I  had  better  try 

13 


THE   DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

to  describe  my  own  character  to  myself. 
What  manner  of  man  am  I  ?  .  .  .  It  may  be 
observed  that  no  one  asks  me  that  question 
— admitted.  But  there,  I  'm  dying,  by  Jove  ! 
— I  'm  dying,  and  at  the  point  of  death  I 
really  think  one  may  be  excused  a  desire  to 
find  out  what  sort  of  a  queer  fish  one  really 
was  after  all. 

Thinking  over  this  important  question,  and 
having,  moreover,  no  need  whatever  to  be  too 
bitter  in  my  expressions  in  regard  to  myself, 
as  people  are  apt  to  be  who  have  a  strong  con- 
viction of  their  valuable  qualities,  I  must  admit 
one  thing.  I  was  a  man,  or  perhaps  I  should 
say  a  fish,  utterly  superfluous  in  this  world. 
And  that  I  propose  to  show  to-morrow,  as  I 
keep  coughing  to-day  like  an  old  sheep,  and 
my  nurse,  Terentyevna,  gives  me  no  peace  :  '  Lie 
down,  my  good  sir,'  she  says,  '  and  drink  a  little 
tea.'  ...  I  know  why  she  keeps  on  at  me :  she 
wants  some  tea  herself  Well !  she 's  welcome  ! 
Why  not  let  the  poor  old  womart  extract  the 
utmost  benefit  she  can  from  her  master  at 
the  last  ...  as  long  as  there  is  still  the 
chance  ? 


14 


THE  DIARY   OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

March  23. 

Winter  again.  The  snow  is  falling  in  flakes. 
Superfluous,  superfluous.  .  .  .  That's  a  capital 
word  I  have  hit  on.  The  more  deeply  I  probe 
into  myself,  the  more  intently  I  review  all  my 
past  life,  the  more  I  am  convinced  of  the  strict 
truth  of  this  expression.  Superfluous — that's 
just  it.  To  other  people  that  term  is  not 
applicable.  .  .  .  People  are  bad,  or  good,  clever, 
stupid,  pleasant,  and  disagreeable ;  but  super- 
fluous ...  no.  Understand  me,  though  :  the 
universe  could  get  on  without  those  people  too 
...  no  doubt ;  but  uselessness  is  not  their 
prime  characteristic,  their  most  distinctive 
attribute,  and  when  you  speak  of  them,  the 
word  '  superfluous  '  is  not  the  first  to  rise  to 
your  lips.  But  I  .  .  .  there's  nothing  else 
one  can  say  about  me  ;  I  'm  superfluous  and 
nothing  more.  A  supernumerary,  and  that's 
all.  Nature,  apparently,  did  not  reckon  on 
my  appearance,  and  consequently  treated  me 
as  an  unexpected  and  uninvited  guest.  A 
facetious  gentleman,  a  great  devotee  of  pre- 
ference, said  very  happily  about  me  that^  I 
was  the  forfeit  my  mother  had  paid  at  the  game 
of  life.  ^  I  am  speaking  about  myself  calmly 
now,  without  any  bitterness.  ...  It's  all  over 
and  done  with ! 

15 


THE   DIARY   OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Throughout  my  whole  life  I  was  constantly 
finding  my  place  taken,  perhaps  because  I  did 
not  look  for  my  place  where  I  should  have  done. 
I  was  apprehensive,  reserved,  and  irritable,  like 
all  sickly  people.  Moreover,  probably  owing  to 
excessive  self-consciousness,  perhaps  as  the 
result  of  the  generally  unfortunate  cast  of  my 
personality,  there  existed  between  my  thoughts 
and  feelings,  and  the  expression  of  those  feel- 
ings and  thoughts,  a  sort  of  inexplicable, 
irrational,  and  utterly  insuperable  barrier ; 
and  whenever  I  made  up  my  mind  to  overcome 
this  obstacle  by  force,  to  break  down  this  barrier, 
my  gestures,  the  expression  of  my  face,  my 
whole  being,  took  on  an  appearance  of  painful 
constraint.  I  not  only  seemed,  I  positively 
became  unnatural  and  affected.  I  was  con- 
scious of  this  myself,  and  hastened  to  shrink 
back  into  myself  Then  a  terrible  commotion 
was  set  up  within  me.  I  analysed  myself  to 
the  last  thread,  compared  myself  with  others, 
recalled  the  slightest  glances,  smiles,  words 
of  the  people  to  whom  I  had  tried  to  open 
myself  out,  put  the  worst  construction  on 
everything,  laughed  vindictively  at  my  own 
pretensions  to  '  be  like  every  one  else,' — and 
suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  my  laughter,  collapsed 
utterly  into  gloom,  sank  into  absurd  dejection, 
and  then  began  again  as  before — went  round 

i6 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

and  round,  in  fact,  like  a  squirrel  on  its  wheel. 
Whole  days  were  spent  in  this  harassing,  fruit- 
less exercise.  Well  now,  tell  me,  if  you  please, 
to  whom  and  for  what  is  such  a  man  of  use  ? 
Why  did  this  happen  to  me?  what  was  the 
reason  of  this  trivial  fretting  at  myself? — who 
knows  ?  who  can  tell  ? 

I  remember  I  was  driving  once  from  Moscow 
in  the  diligence.  It  was  a  good  road,  but  the 
driver,  though  he  had  four  horses  harnessed 
abreast,  hitched  on  another,  alongside  of  them. 
Such  an  unfortunate,  utterly  useless,  fifth  horse 
— fastened  somehow  on  to  the  front  of  the  shaft 
by  a  short  stout  cord,  which  mercilessly  cuts 
his  shoulder,  forces  him  to  go  with  the  most 
unnatural  action,  and  gives  his  whole  body  the 
shape  of  a  comma — always  arouses  my  deepest 
pity.  I  remarked  to  the  driver  that  I  thought 
we  might  on  this  occasion  have  got  on  without 
the  fifth  horse.  .  .  .  He  was  silent  a  moment, 
shook  his  head,  lashed  the  horse  a  dozen  times 
across  his  thin  back  and  under  his  distended 
belly,  and  with  a  grin  responded  :  '  Ay,  to  be 
sure;  why  do  we  drag  him  along  with  us? 
What  the  devil's  he  for?'  And  here  am  I 
too  dragged  along.  But,  thank  goodness,  the 
station  is  not  far  off. 

Superfluous.  ...  I  promised  to  show  the 
justice  of  my  opinion,  and  I  will  carry  out  my 
B  17 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

promise.  I  don't  think  it  necessary  to  mention 
the  thousand  trifles,  everyday  incidents  and 
events,  which  would,  however,  in  the  eyes  of 
any  thinking  man,  serve  as  irrefutable  evidence 
in  my  support — I  mean,  in  support  of  my  con- 
tention. I  had  better  begin  straight  away  with 
one  rather  important  incident,  after  which 
probably  there  will  be  no  doubt  left  of  the 
accuracy  of  the  term  superfluous.  I  repeat  : 
I  do  not  intend  to  indulge  in  minute  details, 
but  I  cannot  pass  over  in  silence  one  rather 
serious  and  significant  fact,  that  is,  the  strange 
behaviour  of  my  friends  (I  too  used  to  have 
friends)  whenever  I  met  them,  or  even  called  on 
them.  They  used  to  seem  ill  at  ease  ;  as  they 
came  to  meet  me,  they  would  give  a  not  quite 
natural  smile,  look,  not  into  my  eyes  nor  at 
my  feet,  as  some  people  do,  but  rather  at 
my  cheeks,  articulate  hurriedly,  '  Ah !  how 
are  you,  Tchulkaturin ! '  (such  is  the  surname 
fate  has  burdened  me  with)  or  'Ah!  here's 
Tchulkaturin  ! '  turn  away  at  once  and  posi- 
tively remain  stockstill  for  a  little  while  after, 
as  though  trying  to  recollect  something.  I 
used  to  notice  all  this,  as  I  am  not  devoid  of 
penetration  and  the  faculty  of  observation  ;  on 
the  whole  I  am  not  a  fool ;  I  sometimes  even 
have  ideas  come  into  my  head  that  are  amusing, 
not  absolutely  commonplace.     But  as  I  am  a 

i8 


THE  DIARY   OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

superfluous  man  with  a  padlock  on  my  inner 
self,  it  is  very  painful  for  me  to  express  my 
idea,  the  more  so  as  I  know  beforehand  that  I 
shall  express  it  badly.  It  positively  sometimes 
strikes  me  as  extraordinary  the  way  people 
manage  to  talk,  and  so  simply  and  freely.  .  .  . 
It's  marvellous,  really,  when  you  think  of  it. 
Though,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  too,  in  spite  of  my 
padlock,  sometimes  have  an  itch  to  talk.  But 
I  did  actually  utter  words  only  in  my  youth ; 
in  riper  years  I  almost  always  pulled  myself 
up.  I  would  murmur  to  myself:  'Come,  we'd 
better  hold  our  tongue.'  And  I  was  still.  (We 
are  all  good  hands  at  being  silent ;  our  women 
especially  are  great  in  that  line.^  Many  an 
exalted  Russian  young  lady  keeps  silent  so 
strenuously  that  the  spectacle  is  calculated  to 
produce  a  faint  shudder  and  cold  sweat  even  in 
any  one  prepared  to  face  it.  But  that 's  not  the 
point,  and  it's  not  for  me  to  criticise  others. 
I  proceed  to  my  promised  narrative. 

A  few  years  back,  owing  to  a  combination  of 
circumstances,  very  insignificant  in  themselves, 
but  very  important   for  me,  it  was   my  lot  to 

spend  six  months  in  the  district  town  O 

This  town  is  all  built  on  a  slope,  and  very 
uncomfortably  built,  too.  There  are  reckoned 
to  be  about  eight  hundred  inhabitants  in  it,  of 
exceptional   poverty ;    the   houses   are   hardly 

19 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

worthy  of  the  name  ;  in  the  chief  street,  by  way 
of  an  apology  for  a  pavement,  there  are  here  and 
there  some  huge  white  slabs  of  rough-hewn  lime- 
stone, in  consequence  of  which  even  carts  drive 
round  it  instead  of  through  it.  In  the  very 
middle  of  an  astoundingly  dirty  square  rises  a 
diminutive  yellowish  edifice  with  black  holes  in 
it,  and  in  these  holes  sit  men  in  big  caps  making 
a  pretence  of  buying  and  selling.  In  this  place 
there  is  an  extraordinarily  high  striped  post 
sticking  up  into  the  air,  and  near  the  post,  in  the 
interests  of  public  order,  by  command  of  the 
authorities,  there  is  kept  a  cartload  of  yellow  hay, 
and  one  government  hen  struts  to  and  fro.     In 

short,  existence  in  the  town  of  O is  truly 

delightful.  During  the  first  days  of  my  stay  in 
this  town,  I  almost  went  out  of  my  mind  with 
boredom.  I  ought  to  say  of  myself  that, 
though  I  am,  no  doubt,  a  superfluous  man,  I 
am  not  so  of  my  own  seeking ;  I  'm  morbid 
myself,  but  I  can't  bear  anything  morbid.  .  .  . 
I  'm  not  even  averse  to  happiness — indeed,  I  Ve 
tried  to  approach  it  right  and  left.  .  .  .  And  so 
it  is  no  wonder  that  I  too  can  be  bored  like  any 
other  mortal.     I  was  staying  in  the  town  of 

O on  official  business. 

Terentyevna  has  certainly  sworn  to  make 
an  end  of  me.  Here 's  a  specimen  of  our 
conversation  : — 

20 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Terentyevna.  Oh — oh,  my  good  sir  !  what 
are  you  for  ever  writing  for  ?  it 's  bad  for 
you,  keeping  all  on  writing. 

I.  But  I'm  dull,  Terentyevna. 

She.  Oh,  you  take  a  cup  of  tea  now  and 
lie  down.  By  God's  mercy  you  '11  get  in  a 
sweat  and  maybe  doze  a  bit. 

I.  But  I'm  not  sleepy. 

She.  Ah,  sir !  why  do  you  talk  so  ?  Lord 
have  mercy  on  you !  Come,  lie  down,  lie 
down  ;  it 's  better  for  you. 

I.  I  shall  die  any  way,  Terentyevna  ! 

She.  Lord  bless  us  and  save  us !  .  .  .  Well, 
do  you  want  a  little  tea? 

I.  I  shan't  live  through  the  week,  Terent- 
yevna ! 

She.  Eh,  eh !  good  sir,  why  do  you  talk 
so  ?  .  .  .  Well,  I  '11  go  and  heat  the  samovar. 

Oh,  decrepit,  yellow,  toothless  creature  !  Am 
I  really,  even  in  your  eyes,  not  a  man  ? 


21 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 


March  24.     Sharp  frost. 

On  the  very  day  of  my  arrival  in  the  town 

of  O ,  the  official  business,  above  referred 

to,  brought  me  into  contact  with  a  certain 
Kirilla  Matveitch  Ozhogin,  one  of  the  chief 
functionaries  of  the  district;  but  I  became 
intimate,  or,  as  it  is  called,  'friends'  with 
him  a  fortnight  later.  His  house  was  in  the 
principal  street,  and  was  distinguished  from 
all  the  others  by  its  size,  its  painted  roof, 
and  the  lions  on  its  gates,  lions  of  that  species 
extraordinarily  resembling  unsuccessful  dogs, 
whose  natural  home  is  Moscow.  From  those 
lions  alone,  one  might  safely  conclude  that 
Ozhogin  was  a  man  of  property.  And  so  it 
was ;  he  was  the  owner  of  four  hundred 
peasants  ;  he  entertained  in  his  house  all  the 

best  society  of  the  town  of  O ,  and  had 

a  reputation  for  hospitality.  At  his  door 
was  seen  the  mayor  with  his  wide  chestnut- 
coloured  droshky  and  pair — an  exceptionally 
bulky  man,  who  seemed  as  though  cut  out 
of  material  that  had  been  laid  by  for  a  long 
time.  The  other  officials,  too,  used  to  drive 
to  his  receptions :  the  attorney,  a  yellowish, 
spiteful  creature  ;  the  land  surveyor,  a  wit — of 
German  extraction,  with  a  Tartar  face  ;  the  in- 

22 


THE  DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

spector  of  means  of  communication — a  soft  soul, 
who  sang  songs,  but  a  scandalmonger;  a  former 
marshal  of  the  district — a  gentleman  with  dyed 
hair,  crumpled  shirt-front,  and  tight  trousers, 
and  that  lofty  expression  of  face  so  charac- 
teristic of  men  who  have  stood  on  trial. 
There  used  to  come  also  two  landowners,  in- 
separable friends,  both  no  longer  young  and 
indeed  a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  of  whom 
the  younger  was  continually  crushing  the  elder 
and  putting  him  to  silence  with  one  and  the 
same  reproach.  *  Don't  you  talk,  Sergei  Ser- 
geitch  !  What  have  you  to  say  ?  Why,  you 
spell  the  word  cork  with  two  /^'s  in  it.  .  .  . 
Yes,  gentlemen,'  he  would  go  on,  with  all  the 
fire  of  conviction,  turning  to  the  bystanders, 
'  Sergei  Sergeitch  spells  it  not  cork,  but  kork.' 
And  every  one  present  would  laugh,  though 
probably  not  one  of  them  was  conspicuous  for 
special  accuracy  in  orthography,  while  the 
luckless  Sergei  Sergeitch  held  his  tongue,  and 
with  a  faint  smile  bowed  his  head.  But  I  am 
forgetting  that  my  hours  are  numbered,  and 
am  letting  myself  go  into  too  minute  descrip- 
tions. And  so,  without  further  beating  about 
the  bush, — Ozhogin  was  married,  he  had  a 
daughter,  Elizaveta  Kirillovna,  and  I  fell  in 
love  with  this  daughter. 

Ozhogin  himself  was  a  commonplace  person, 

23 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

neither  good-looking  nor  bad-looking  ;  his  wife 
resembled  an  aged  chicken  ;  but  their  daughter 
had  not  taken  after  her  parents.  She  was  very 
pretty  and  of  a  bright  and  gentle  disposition. 
Her  clear  grey  eyes  looked  out  kindly  and 
directly  from  under  childishly  arched  brows  ; 
she  was  almost  always  smiling,  and  she  laughed 
too,  pretty  often.  Her  fresh  voice  had  a  very 
pleasant  ring ;  she  moved  freely,  rapidly,  and 
blushed  gaily.  She  did  not  dress  very  stylishly, 
only  plain  dresses  suited  her.  I  did  not  make 
friends  quickly  as  a  rule,  and  if  I  were  at 
ease  with  any  one  from  the  first — which,  how- 
ever, scarcely  ever  occurred — it  said,  I  must 
own,  a  great  deal  for  my  new  acquaintance. 
I  did  not  know  at  all  how  to  behave  with 
women,  and  in  their  presence  I  either  scowled 
and  put  on  a  morose  air,  or  grinned  in  the  most 
idiotic  way,  and  in  my  embarrassment  turned 
my  tongue  round  and  round  in  my  mouth. 
With  Elizaveta  Kirillovna,  on  the  contrary, 
I  felt  at  home  from  the  first  moment.  It 
happened  in  this  way. 

I  called  one  day  at  Ozhogin's  before  dinner, 
asked,  '  At  home  ?  '  was  told, '  The  master 's  at 
home,  dressing;  please  to  walk  into  the  draw- 
ing-room.' I  went  into  the  drawing-room  ;  I 
beheld  standing  at  the  window,  with  her  back  to 
me,  a  girl  in  a  white  gown,  with  a  cage  in  her 

24 


THE  DIARY   OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

hands.  I  was,  as  my  way  was,  somewhat  taken 
aback  ;  however,  I  showed  no  sign  of  it,  but 
merely  coughed,  for  good  manners.  The  girl 
turned  round  quickly,  so  quickly  that  her  curls 
gave  her  a  slap  in  the  face,  saw  me,  bowed, 
and  with  a  smile  showed  me  a  little  box  half 
full  of  seeds.  '  You  don't  mind  ? '  I,  of  course, 
as  is  the  usual  practice  in  such  cases,  first 
bowed  my  head,  and  at  the  same  time  rapidly 
crooked  my  knees,  and  straightened  them  out 
again  (as  though  some  one  had  given  me  a 
blow  from  behind  in  the  legs,  a  sure  sign  of 
good  breeding  and  pleasant,  easy  manners),  and 
then  smiled,  raised  my  hand,  and  softly  and 
carefully  brandished  it  twice  in  the  air.  The 
girl  at  once  turned  away  from  me,  took  a  little 
piece  of  board  out  of  the  cage,  began  vigorously 
scraping  it  with  a  knife,  and  suddenly,  without 
changing  her  attitude,  uttered  the  following 
words  :  '  This  is  papa's  parrot.  .  .  .  Are  you 
fond  of  parrots  ? '  'I  prefer  siskins,'  I  answered, 
not  without  some  effort.  '  I  like  siskins,  too  ; 
but  look  at  him,  isn't  he  pretty?  Look,  he's 
not  afraid.'  (What  surprised  me  was  that  I 
was  not  afraid.)  'Come  closer.  His  name's 
Popka.'  I  went  up,  and  bent  down.  '  Isn't  he 
really  sweet  ? '  She  turned  her  face  to  me  ; 
but  we  were  standing  so  close  together,  that 
she  had  to  throw  her  head  back  to  get  a  look 

25 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

at  me  with  her  clear  eyes.  I  gazed  at  her ; 
her  rosy  young  face  was  smiling  all  over  in 
such  a  friendly  way  that  I  smiled  too,  and 
almost  laughed  aloud  with  delight.  The  door 
opened ;  Mr.  Ozhogin  came  in.  I  promptly 
went  up  to  him,  ani  began  talking  to  him  very 
unconstrainedly.  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but 
I  stayed  to  dinner,  and  spent  the  whole  even- 
ing with  them  ;  and  next  day  the  Ozhogins' 
footman,  an  elongated,  dull-eyed  person,  smiled 
upon  me  as  a  friend  of  the  family  when  he 
helped  me  off  with  my  overcoat. 

To  find  a  haven  of  refuge,  to  build  oneself 
even  a  temporary  nest,  to  feel  the  comfort  of 
\  daily  intercourse  and  habits,  was  a  happiness 
I,  a  superfluous  man,  with  no  family  associa- 
tions, had  never  before  experienced.  If  any- 
thing about  me  had  had  any  resemblance  to 
a  flower,  and  if  the  comparison  were  not  so 
hackneyed,  I  would  venture  to  say  that  my 
soul  blossomed  from  that  day.  Everything 
within  me  and  about  me  was  suddenly  trans- 
formed !  My  whole  life  was  lighted  up  by 
love,  the  whole  of  it,  down  to  the  paltriest 
details,  like  a  dark,  deserted  room  when  a 
light  has  been  brought  into  it  I  went  to  bed, 
and  got  up,  dressed,  ate  my  breakfast,  and 
smoked  my  pipe — differently  from  before.  I 
positively    skipped    along    as     I    walked,     as 

26 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

though  wings  were  suddenly  sprouting  from 
my  shoulders.  I  was  not  for  an  instant,  I 
remember,  in  uncertainty  with  regard  to  the 
feeling  Elizaveta  Kirillovna  inspired  in  me. 
I  fell  passionately  in  love. with  her  from  the 
first  day,  and  from  the  first  day  I  knew  I 
was  in  love.  During  the  course  of  three  weeks 
I  saw  her  every  day.  Those  three  weeks  were 
the  happiest  time  in  my  life  ;  but  the  recollec- 
tion of  them  is  painful  to  me.  I  can't  think 
of  them  alone  ;  I  cannot  help  dwelling  on  what 
followed  after  them,  and  the  intensest  bitterness 
slowly  takes  possession  of  my  softened  heart 

When  a  man  is  very  happy,  his  brain,  as  is 
well  known,  is  not  very  active.  A  calm  and 
delicious  sensation,  the  sensation  of  satisfaction, 
pervades  his  whole  being  ;  he  is  swallowed  up  by 
it ;  the  consciousness  of  personal  life  vanishes 
in  him — he  is  in  beatitude,  as  badly  educated 
poets  say.  But  when,  at  last,  this  'enchant- 
ment '  is  over,  a  man  is  sometimes  vexed  and 
sorry  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  bliss,  he  observed 
himself  so  little ;  that  he  did  not,  by  reflection, 
by  recollection,  redouble  and  prolong  his  feel- 
ings ...  as  though  the  '  beatific '  man  had  time, 
and  it  were  worth  his  while  to  reflect  on  his 
sensations !  The  happy  man  is  what  the  fly  is 
in  the  sunshine.  And  so  it  is  that,  when  I  recall 
those  three  weeks,  it  is  almost  impossible  for 

27 


THE  DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

me  to  retain  in  my  mind  any  exact  and  definite 
impression,  all  the  more  so  as  during  that  time 
nothing  very  remarkable  took  place  between 
us.  .  .  .  Those  twenty  days  are  present  to  my 
imagination  as  something  warm,  and  young, 
and  fragrant,  a  sort  of  streak  of  light  in  my 
dingy,  greyish  life.  My  memory  becomes  all 
at  once  remorselessly  clear  and  trustworthy, 
only  from  the  instant  when,  to  use  the  phrase 
of  badly-educated  writers,  the  blows  of  destiny 
began  to  fall  upon  me. 

Yes,  those  three  weeks.  .  .  .  Not  but  what 
they  have  left  some  images  in  my  mind.  Some- 
times when  it  happens  to  me  to  brood  a  long 
while  on  that  time,  some  memories  suddenly 
float  up  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  past — like 
stars  which  suddenly  come  out  against  the 
evening  sky  to  meet  the  eyes  straining  to  catch 
sight  of  them.  One  country  walk  in  a  wood  has 
remained  particularly  distinct  in  my  memory. 
There  were  four  of  us,  old  Madame  Ozhogin, 
Liza,   I,  and   a   certain    Bizmyonkov,  a  petty 

official  of  the  town  of  O ,  a  light-haired, 

good-natured,  and  harmless  person.  I  shall 
have  more  to  say  of  him  later.  Mr.  Ozhogin 
had  stayed  at  home ;  he  had  a  headache,  from 
sleeping  too  long.  The  day  was  exquisite ; 
warm  and  soft.  I  must  observe  that  pleasure- 
gardens  and  picnic-parties  are  not  to  the  taste 

28 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

of  the  average  Russian.  In  district  towns,  in 
the  so-called  public  gardens,  you  never  meet 
a  living  soul  at  any  time  of  the  year ;  at  the 
most,  some  old  woman  sits  sighing  and  moan- 
ing on  a  green  garden  seat,  broiling  in  the 
sun,  not  far  from  a  sickly  tree — and  that,  only 
if  there  is  no  greasy  little  bench  in  the  gateway 
near.  But  if  there  happens  to  be  a  scraggy 
birchwood  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  town, 
tradespeople  and  even  officials  gladly  make 
excursions  thither  on  Sundays  and  holidays, 
with  samovars,  pies,  and  melons  ;  set  all  this 
abundance  on  the  dusty  grass,  close  by  the  road, 
sit  round,  and  eat  and  drink  tea  in  the  sweat 
of  their  brows  till  evening.  Just  such  a  wood 
there  was  at  that  time  a  mile  and  a  half  from 

the  town  of  O .     We  repaired  there  after 

dinner,  duly  drank  our  fill  of  tea,  and  then 
all  four  began  to  wander  about  the  wood. 
Bizmyonkov  walked  with  Madame  Ozhogin  on 
his  arm,  I  with  Liza  on  mine.  The  day  was 
already  drawing  to  evening.  I  was  at  that 
time  in  the  very  fire  of  first  love  (not  more  than 
a  fortnight  had  passed  since  our  first  meeting), 
in  that  condition  of  passionate  and  concentrated 
adoration,  when  your  whole  soul  innocently  and 
unconsciously  follows  every  movement  of  the 
beloved  being,  when  you  can  never  have  enough 
of  her  presence,  listen  enough   to  her  voice, 

29 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

when  you  smile  with  the  look  of  a  child  con- 
valescent after  sickness,  and  a  man  of  the 
smallest  experience  cannot  fail  at  the  first 
glance  to  recognise  a  hundred  yards  off  what 
is  the  matter  with  you.  Till  that  day  I  had 
never  happened  to  have  Liza  on  my  arm.  We 
walked  side  by  side,  stepping  slowly  over  the 
green  grass.  A  light  breeze,  as  it  were,  flitted 
about  us  between  the  white  stems  of  the  birches, 
every  now  and  then  flapping  the  ribbon  of  her 
hat  into  my  face.  I  incessantly  followed  her 
eyes,  until  at  last  she  turned  gaily  to  me  and 
we  both  smiled  at  each  other.  The  birds  were 
chirping  approvingly  above  us,  the  blue  sky 
peeped  caressingly  at  us  through  the  delicate 
foliage.  My  head  was  going  round  with  excess 
of  bliss.  I  hasten  to  remark,  Liza  was  not  a 
bit  in  love  with  me.  She  liked  me ;  she  was 
never  shy  with  any  one,  but  it  was  not  reserved 
for  me  to  trouble  her  childlike  peace  of  mind. 
She  walked  arm  in  arm  with  me,  as  she  would 
with  a  brother.  She  was  seventeen  then.  .  .  . 
And  meanwhile,  that  very  evening,  before  my 
eyes,  there  began  that  soft  inward  ferment 
which  precedes  the  metamorphosis  of  the  child 
into  the  woman.  ...  I  was  witness  of  that 
transformation  of  the  whole  being,  that  guile- 
less bewilderment,  that  agitated  dreaminess  ; 
I  was  the  first  to  detect  the  sudden  softness 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

of  the  glance,  the  sudden  ring  in  the  voice — 
and  oh,  fool !  oh,  superfluous  man  !  For  a 
whole  week  I  had  the  face  to  imagine  that 
I,  I  was  the  cause  of  this  transformation  ! 

This  was  how  it  happened. 

We  walked  rather  a  long  while,  till  evening, 
and  talked  little.  I  was  silent,  like  all  in- 
experienced lovers,  and  she,  probably,  had 
nothing  to  say  to  me.  But  she  seemed  to  be 
pondering  over  something,  and  shook  her  head 
in  a  peculiar  way,  as  she  pensively  nibbled  a 
leaf  she  had  picked.  Sometimes  she  started 
walking  ahead,  so  resolutely  .  .  .  then  all  at 
once  stopped,  waited  for  me,  and  looked  round 
with  lifted  eyebrows  and  a  vague  smile.  On 
the  previous  evening  we  had  read  together 
The  Prisoner  of  the  Caucasus.  With  what 
eagerness  she  had  listened  to  me,  her  face 
propped  in  both  hands,  and  her  bosom  pressed 
against  the  table !  I  began  to  speak  of  our 
yesterday's  reading ;  she  flushed,  asked  me 
whether  I  had  given  the  parrot  any  hemp-seed 
before  starting,  began  humming  some  little  song 
aloud,  and  all  at  once  was  silent  again.  The 
copse  ended  on  one  side  in  a  rather  high  and 
abrupt  precipice ;  below  coursed  a  winding 
stream,  and  beyond  it,  over  an  immense  ex- 
panse, stretched  the  boundless  prairies,  rising 
like  waves,  spreading  wide  like  a  table-cloth, 

31 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

and  broken  here  and  there  by  ravines.  Liza 
and  I  were  the  first  to  come  out  at  the  edge 
of  the  wood  ;  Bizmyonkov  and  the  elder  lady 
were  behind.  We  came  out,  stood  still,  and 
involuntarily  we  both  half  shut  our  eyes; 
directly  facing  us,  across  a  lurid  mist,  the 
vast,  purple  sun  was  setting.  Half  the  sky 
was  flushed  and  glowing ;  red  rays  fell  slanting 
on  the  meadows,  casting  a  crimson  reflection 
even  on  the  side  of  the  ravines  in  shadow, 
lying  in  gleams  of  fire  on  the  stream,  where 
it  was  not  hidden  under  the  overhanging 
bushes,  and,  as  it  were,  leaning  on  the  bosom 
of  the  precipice  and  the  copse.  We  stood, 
bathed  in  the  blazing  brilliance.  I  am  not 
capable  of  describing  all  the  impassioned 
solemnity  of  this  scene.  They  say  that  by 
a  blind  man  the  colour  red  is  imagined  as 
the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  I  don't  know  how 
far  this  comparison  is  correct,  but  really  there 
was  something  of  a  challenge  in  this  glowing 
gold  of  the  evening  air,  in  the  crimson  flush 
on  sky  and  earth.  I  uttered  a  cry  of  rapture 
and  at  once  turned  to  Liza.  She  was  looking 
straight  at  the  sun.  I  remember  the  sunset 
glow  was  reflected  in  little  points  of  fire  in 
her  eyes.  She  was  overwhelmed,  deeply  moved* 
She  made  no  response  to  my  exclamation ; 
for  a  long  while  she  stood,  not  stirring,  with 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

drooping  head.  ...  I  held  out  my  hand  to  her  ; 
she  turned  away  from  me,  and  suddenly  burst 
into  tears.  I  looked  at  her  with  secret,  almost 
delighted  amazement.  .  .  .  The  voice  of  Biz- 
myonkov  was  heard  a  couple  of  yards  off. 
Liza  quickly  wiped  her  tears  and  looked  with 
a  faltering  smile  at  me.  The  elder  lady  came 
out  of  the  copse  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her 
flaxen-headed  escort ;  they,  in  their  turn,  ad- 
mired the  view.  The  old  lady  addressed  some 
question  to  Liza,  and  I  could  not  help  shudder- 
ing, I  remember,  when  her  daughter's  broken 
voice,  like  cracked  glass,  sounded  in  reply. 
Meanwhile  the  sun  had  set,  and  the  afterglow 
began  to  fade.  We  turned  back.  Again  I 
took  Liza's  arm  in  mine.  It  was  still  light  in 
the  wood,  and  I  could  clearly  distinguish  her 
features.  She  was  confused,  and  did  not  raise 
her  eyes.  The  flush  that  overspread  her  face 
did  not  vanish  ;  it  was  as  though  she  were  still 
standing  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  .  .  . 
Her  hand  scarcely  touched  my  arm.  For  a  long 
while  I  could  not  frame  a  sentence ;  my  heart 
was  beating  so  violently.  Through  the  trees 
there  was  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  the  coachman  was  coming  at  a  walking 
pace  to  meet  us  over  the  soft  sand  of  the  road. 
'  Lizaveta  Kirillovna,'  I  brought  out  at  last, 
'  what  did  you  cry  for  ? ' 


THE   DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

*  I  don't  know/  she  answered,  after  a  short 
silence.  She  looked  at  me  with  her  soft  eyes 
still  wet  with  tears — her  look  struck  me  as 
changed,  and  she  was  silent  again. 

'  You  are  very  fond,  I  see,  of  nature,'  I  pur- 
sued. That  was  not  at  all  what  I  meant  to 
say,  and  the  last  words  my  tongue  scarcely 
faltered  out  to  the  end.  She  shook  her  head. 
I  could  not  utter  another  word.  ...  I  was 
waiting  for  something  .  .  .  not  an  avowal — 
how  was  that  possible?  I  waited  for  a  con- 
fiding glance,  a  question.  .  .  .  But  Liza  looked 
at  the  ground,  and  kept  silent.  I  repeated  once 
more  in  a  whisper  :  '  Why  was  it  ?  '  and  received 
no  reply.  She  had  grown,  I  saw  that,  ill  at 
ease,  almost  ashamed. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  we  were  sitting 
in  the  carriage  driving  to  the  town.  The  horses 
flew  along  at  an  even  trot ;  we  were  rapidly 
whirled  along  through  the  darkening,  damp  air. 
I  suddenly  began  talking,  more  than  once 
addressing  first  Bizmyonkov,  and  then  Madame 
Ozhogin.  I  did  not  look  at  Liza,  but  I  could 
see  that  from  her  corner  in  the  carriage  her 
eyes  did  not  once  rest  on  me.  At  home  she 
roused  herself,  but  would  not  read  with  me,  and 
soon  went  off  to  bed.  A  turning-point,  that 
turning-point  I  have  spoken  of,  had  been 
reached  by  her.     She  had  ceased  to  be  a  little 

34 


THE  DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

girl,  she  too  had  begun  .  .  .  like  me  ...  to  wait 
for  something.     She  had  not  long  to  wait. 

But  that  night  I  went  home  to  my  lodgings  in 
a  state  of  perfect  ecstasy.  The  vague  half  pre- 
sentiment, half  suspicion,  which  had  been  arising 
within  me,  had  vanished.  The  sudden  con- 
straint in  Liza's  manner  towards  me  I  ascribed 
to  maidenly  bashfulness,  timidity.  .  .  .  Hadn't 
I  read  a  thousand  times  over  in  many  books 
that  the  first  appearance  of  love  always  agitates 
and  alarms  a  young  girl?  I  felt  supremely 
happy,  and  was  already  making  all  sorts  of 
plans  in  my  head. 

If  some  one  had  whispered  in  my  ear  then : 
'  You  're  raving,  my  dear  chap  !  that 's  not  a  bit 
what 's  in  store  for  you.  What 's  in  store  for  you 
is  to  die  all  alone,  in  a  wretched  little  cottage, 
amid  the  insufferable  grumbling  of  an  old  hag 
who  will  await  your  death  with  impatience  to 
sell  your  boots  for  a  few  coppers  .  .  .' ! 

Yes,  one  can't  help  saying  with  the  Russian 
philosopher — '  How 's  one  to  know  what  one 
doesn't  know  ? ' 

Enough  for  to-day. 


35 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


March  25.     A  white  whiter  day. 

I  have  read  over  what  I  wrote  yesterday, 
and  was  all  but  tearing  up  the  whole  manu- 
script. I  think  my  story's  too  spun  out  and 
too  sentimental.  However,  as  the  rest  of  my 
recollections  of  that  time  presents  nothing  of  a 
pleasurable  character,  except  that  peculiar  sort 
of  consolation  which  Lermontov  had  in  view 
when  he  said  there  is  pleasure  and  pain  in 
irritating  the  sores  of  old  wounds,  why  not 
indulge  oneself?  But  one  must  know  where  to 
draw  the  line.  And  so  I  will  continue  without 
any  sort  of  sentimentality. 

During  the  whole  of  the  week  after  the  country 
excursion,  my  position  was  in  reality  in  no  way 
improved,  though  the  change  in  Liza  became 
more  noticeable  every  day.  I  interpreted  this 
change,  as  I  have  said  before,  in  the  most  favour- 
able way  for  me.  .  .  .  The  misfortune  of  solitary 
and  timid  people — who  are  timid  from  self-con- 
sciousness— is  just  that,  though  they  have  eyes 
and  indeed  open  them  wide,  they  see  nothing, 
or  see  everything  in  a  false  light,  as  though 
through  coloured  spectacles.  Their  own  ideas 
and  speculations  trip  them  up  at  every  step. 
At  the  commencement  of  our  acquaintance, 
Liza  behaved  confidingly  and  freely  with  me, 

36 


THE   DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

like  a  child  ;  perhaps  there  may  even  have  been 
in  her  attitude  to  me  something  more  than  mere 
childish  liking.  .  .  .  But  after  this  strange, 
almost  instantaneous  change  had  taken  place 
in  her,  after  a  period  of  brief  perplexity,  she 
felt  constrained  in  my  presence ;  she  uncon- 
sciously turned  away  from  me,  and  was  at  the 
same  time  melancholy  and  dreamy.  .  .  .  She 
was  waiting  .  .  .  for  what?  She  did  not 
know  .  .  .  while  I  .  .  .  I,  as  I  have  said  above, 
was  delighted  at  this  change.  .  .  .  Yes,  by 
God,  I  was  ready  to  expire,  as  they  say,  with 
rapture.  Though  I  am  prepared  to  allow  that 
any  one  else  in  my  place  might  have  been 
deceived.  .  .  .  Who  is  free  from  vanity  ?  I 
need  not  say  that  all  this  was  only  clear  to  me 
in  the  course  of  time,  when  I  had  to  lower  my 
clipped  and  at  no  time  over-powerful  wings. 

The  misunderstanding  that  had  arisen  be- 
tween Liza  and  me  lasted  a  whole  week — and 
there  is  nothing  surprising  in  that :  it  has  been 
my  lot  to  be  a  witness  of  misunderstandings 
that  have  lasted  for  years  and  years.  Who 
was  it  said,  by  the  way,  that  truth  alone  is 
powerful  ?  Falsehood  is  just  as  living  as  truth, 
if  not  more  so.  To  be  sure,  I  recollect  that 
even  during  that  week  I  felt  from  time  to  time 
an  uneasy  gnawing  astir  within  me  .  .  .  but 
solitary  people   like   me,  I    say  again,  are  as 

37 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

incapable  of  understanding  what  is  going  on 
within  them  as  what  is  taking  place  before  their 
eyes.  And,  besides,  is  love  a  natural  feeling? 
Is  it  natural  for  man  to  love  ?  )  Love  is  a  sick- 
ness ;  and  for  sickness  there  is  no  law.  ^  Grant- 
ing that  there  was  at  times  an  unpleasant  pang 
in  my  heart ;  well,  everything  inside  me  was 
turned  upside  down.  And  how  is  one  to  know 
in  such  circumstances,  what  is  all  right  and 
what  is  all  wrong?  and  what  is  the  cause, 
and  what  the  significance,  of  each  separate 
symptom  ?  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  all  these 
misconceptions,  presentiments,  and  hopes  were 
shattered  in  the  following  manner. 

One  day — it  was  in  the  morning  about  twelve 
o'clock — I  had  hardly  entered  Mr.  Ozhogin's 
hall,  when  I  heard  an  unfamiliar,  mellow  voice 
in  the  drawing-room,  the  door  opened,  and  a  tall 
and  slim  man  of  five-and-twenty  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  escorted  by  the  master  of  the  house. 
He  rapidly  put  on  a  military  overcoat  which 
lay  on  the  slab,  and  took  cordial  leave  of  Kirilla 
Matveitch.  As  he  brushed  past  me,  he  care- 
lessly touched  his  foraging  cap,  and  vanished 
with  a  clink  of  his  spurs. 

'  Who  is  that  ?  '  I  asked  Ozhogin. 

'  Prince  N.,'  the  latter  responded,  with  a  pre- 
occupied face;  'sent  from  Petersburg  to  collect 
recruits.    But  where  are  the  servants  ? '  he  went 

38 


THE  DIARY   OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

on  in  a  tone  of  annoyance  ;  *  no  one  handed  him 
his  coat.' 

We  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

'  Has  he  been  here  long  ? '  I  inquired. 

'  Arrived  yesterday  evening,  I  'm  told.  I 
offered  him  a  room  here,  but  he  refused.  He 
seems  a  very  nice  fellow,  though.' 

'  Has  he  been  long  with  you  ?  ' 

*  About  an  hour.  He  asked  me  to  introduce 
him  to  Olimpiada  Nikitishna.' 

'  And  did  you  introduce  him  ? ' 

*  Of  course.' 

'And  Lizaveta  Kirillovna,  too,  did  he  .  .  .' 
'  He  made  her  acquaintance,  too,  of  course.' 
I  was  silent  for  a  space. 

*  Has  he  come  here  for  long,  do  you  know  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  believe  he  has  to  be  here  for  a  fort- 
night' 

And  Kirilla  Matveitch  hurried  away  to  dress. 
I  walked  several  times  up  and  down  the  drawing- 
room.  I  don't  recollect  that  Prince  N.'s  arrival 
made  any  special  impression  on  me  at  the  time, 
except  that  feeling  of  hostility  which  usually 
possesses  us  on  the  appearance  of  any  new 
person  in  our  domestic  circle.  Possibly  there 
was  mingled  with  this  feeling  something  too  of 
the  nature  of  envy — of  a  shy  and  obscure  person 
from  Moscow  towards  a  brilliant  officer  from 
Petersburg.     '  The  prince,'  I  mused,  *  is  an  up- 

39 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

start  from  the  capital;  he'll  look  down  upon 
us.  .  .  .'  I  had  not  seen  him  for  more  than  an 
instant,  but  I  had  had  time  to  perceive  that  he 
was  good-looking,  clever,  and  at  his  ease.  After 
pacing  the  room  for  some  time,  I  stopped  at 
last  before  a  looking-glass,  pulled  a  comb  out 
of  my  pocket,  gave  a  picturesque  carelessness 
to  my  hair,  and,  as  sometimes  happens,  became 
suddenly  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  my 
own  face.  I  remember  my  attention  centred 
anxiously  about  my  nose  ;  the  soft  and  unde- 
fined outlines  of  that  feature  afforded  me  no 
great  satisfaction,  when  suddenly  in  the  dark 
depths  of  the  sloping  mirror,  which  reflected 
almost  the  whole  room,  the  door  opened,  and 
the  slender  figure  of  Liza  appeared.  I  don't 
know  why  I  did  not  stir,  and  kept  the  same 
expression  on  my  face.  Liza  craned  her  head 
forward,  looked  intently  at  me,  and  raising  her 
eyebrows,  biting  her  lips,  and  holding  her 
breath  as  any  one  does  who  is  glad  at  not 
being  noticed,  she  cautiously  drew  back  and 
stealthily  drew  the  door  to  after  her.  The  door 
creaked  slightly.  Liza  started  and  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot  ...  I  still  kept  from  stirring  .  .  . 
she  pulled  the  handle  again  and  vanished. 
There  was  no  possibilit}^  of  doubt :  the  ex- 
pression of  Liza's  face  at  the  sight  of  my  figure, 
that   expression    in   which    nothing    could   be 

40 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

detected  except  a  desire  to  get  away  again 
successfully,  to  escape  a  disagreeable  interview, 
the  quick  flash  of  delight  I  had  time  to  catch 
in  her  eyes  when  she  fancied  she  really  had 
managed  to  creep  away  unnoticed — it  all  spoke 
too  clearly ;  that  girl  did  not  love  me.  For  a 
long,  long  while  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  that 
motionless,  dumb  door,  which  was  once  more 
a  patch  of  white  in  the  looking-glass.  I  tried 
to  smile  at  my  own  long  face — dropped  my 
head,  went  home  again,  and  flung  myself  on 
the  sofa.  I  felt  extraordinarily  heavy  at  heart, 
so  much  so  that  I  could  not  cry  .  .  .  and, 
besides,  what  was  there  to  cry  about  .  .  .  ?  'Is 
it  possible  ? '  I  repeated  incessantly,  lying,  as 
though  I  were  murdered,  on  my  back  with  my 
hands  folded  on  my  breast — '  is  it  possible  ?  '  .  .  . 
Don't  you  think  that 's  rather  good,  that  '  is  it 
possible  ? ' 


41 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


March  26.     Thaw. 

When,  next  day,  after  long  hesitation  and 
with  a  low  sinking  at  my  heart,  I  went  into  the 
Ozhogins'  familiar  drawing-room,  I  was  no 
longer  the  same  man  as  they  had  known 
during  the  last  three  weeks.  All  my  old 
peculiarities,  which  I  had  begun  to  get  over, 
under  the  influence  of  a  new  feeling,  reappeared 
and  took  possession  of  me,  like  proprietors 
returning  to  their  house.  People  of  my  sort 
are  usually  guided,  not  so  much  by  positive 
facts,  as  by  their  own  impressions :  I,  who  no 
longer  ago  than  the  day  before  had  been 
dreaming  of  the  '  raptures  of  love  returned,' 
was  that  day  no  less  convinced  of  my  '  unhap- 
piness,'  and  was  absolutely  despairing,  though 
I  was  not  myself  able  to  find  any  rational 
ground  for  my  despair.  I  could  not  as  yet  be 
jealous  of  Prince  N.,  and  whatever  his  qualities 
might  be,  his  mere  arrival  was  not  sufficient 
to  extinguish  Liza's  good-will  towards  me  at 
once.  .  .  .  But  stay,  was  there  any  good-will 
on  her  part  ?  I  recalled  the  past.  '  What  of 
the  walk  in  the  wood  ? '  I  asked  myself  '  What 
of  the  expression  of  her  face  in  the  glass  ? ' 
*  But,'  I  went  on,  '  the  walk  in  the  wood,  I 
think    .    .    .    Fie   on    me  !    my    God,   what   a 

42 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

wretched  creature  I  am  ! '  I  said  at  last,  out 
loud.  Of  such  sort  were  the  unphrased,  in- 
complete thoughts  that  went  round  and  round 
a  thousand  times  over  in  a  monotonous  whirl 
in  my  head.  I  repeat,  I  went  back  to  the 
Ozhogins'  the  same  hypersensitive,  suspicious, 
constrained  creature  I  had  been  from  my  child- 
hood up.  .  .   . 

I  found  the  whole  family  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  Bizmyonkov  was  sitting  there,  too,  in 
a  corner.  Every  one  seemed  in  high  good- 
humour  ;  Ozhogin,  in  particular,  positively 
beamed,  and  his  first  word  was  to  tell  me 
that  Prince  N.  had  spent  the  whole  of  the 
previous  evening  with  them.  Liza  gave  me 
a  tranquil  greeting.  'Oh,'  said  I  to  myself; 
'  now  I  understand  why  you  're  in  such  spirits.' 
I  must  own  the  prince's  second  visit  puzzled 
me.  I  had  not  anticipated  it.  As  a  rule 
fellows  like  me  anticipate  everything  in  the 
world,  except  what  is  bound  to  occur  in  the 
natural  order  of  things  ;  I  sulked  and  put  on 
the  air  of  an  injured  but  magnanimous  person  ; 
I  tried  to  punish  Liza  by  showing  my  dis- 
pleasure, from  which  one  must  conclude  I  was 
not  yet  completely  desperate  after  all.  They 
do  say  that  in  some  cases  when  one  is  really 
loved,  it's  positively  of  use  to  torment  the 
adored  one  ;    but  in    my  position   it   was  in- 

43 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

describably  stupid.  Liza,  in  the  most  innocent 
way,  paid  no  attention  to  me.  No  one  but 
Madame  Ozhogin  observed  my  solemn  taci- 
turnity, and  she  inquired  anxiously  after  my 
health.  I  replied,  of  course,  with  a  bitter 
smile,  that  I  was  thankful  to  say  I  was  per- 
fectly well.  Ozhogin  continued  to  expatiate 
on  the  subject  of  their  visitor  ;  but  noticing 
that  I  responded  reluctantly,  he  addressed 
himself  principally  to  Bizmyonkov,  who  was 
listening  to  him  with  great  attention,  when  a 
servant  suddenly  came  in,  announcing  the 
arrival  of  Prince  N.  Our  host  jumped  up 
and  ran  to  meet  him  ;  Liza,  upon  whom  I  at 
once  turned  an  eagle  eye,  flushed  with  delight, 
and  made  as  though  she  would  move  from  her 
seat.  The  prince  came  in,  all  agreeable  per- 
fume, gaiety,  cordiality.  .  .  . 

As  I  am  not  composing  a  romance  for  a 
gentle  reader,  but  simply  writing  for  my  own 
amusement,  it  stands  to  reason  I  need  not 
make  use  of  the  usual  dodges  of  our  respected 
authors.  I  will  say  straight  out  without  further 
delay  that  Liza  fell  passionately  in  love  with 
the  prince  from  the  first  day  she  saw  him,  and 
the  prince  fell  in  love  with  her  too — partly 
from  having  nothing  to  do,  and  partly  from  a 
propensity  for  turning  women's  heads,  and  also 
owing  to  the  fact  that  Liza  really  was  a  very 

44 


THE   DIARY   OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

charming  creature.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
wondered  at  in  their  falHng  in  love  with  each 
other.  He  had  certainly  never  expected  to 
find  such  a  pearl  in  such  a  wretched  shell  (I 
am    alluding    to    the    God-forsaken    town    of 

O ),   and    she    had    never   in   her   wildest 

dreams  seen  anything  in  the  least  like  this 
brilliant,  clever,  fascinating  aristocrat. 

After  the  first  courtesies,  Ozhogin  introduced 
me  to  the  prince,  who  was  very  affable  in  his 
behaviour  to  me.  He  was  as  a  rule  very 
affable  with  every  one  ;  and  in  spite  of  the 
immeasurable  distance  between  him  and  our 
obscure  provincial  circle,  he  was  clever  enough 
to  avoid  being  a  source  of  constraint  to  any  one, 
and  even  to  make  a  show  of  being  on  our  level, 
and  only  living  at  Petersburg,  as  it  were,  by 
accident. 

That  first  evening.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  first  evening ! 
In  our  happy  days  of  childhood  our  teachers 
used  to  describe  and  set  up  before  us  as  an 
example  the  manly  fortitude  of  the  young 
Spartan,  who,  having  stolen  a  fox  and  hidden  it 
under  his  tunic,  without  uttering  one  shriek  let 
it  devour  all  his  entrails,  and  so  preferred  death 
itself  to  disgrace.  ...  I  can  find  no  better 
comparison  for  my  indescribable  sufferings 
during  the  evening  on  which  I  first  saw  the 
prince  by  Liza's   side.      My  continual   forced 

45 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

smile  and  painful  vigilance,  my  idiotic  silence, 
my  miserable  and  ineffectual  desire  to  get  away 
— all  that  was  doubtless  something  truly  re- 
markable in  its  own  way.  It  was  not  one  wild 
beast  alone  gnawing  at  my  vitals ;  jealousy, 
envy,  the  sense  of  my  own  insignificance,  and 
helpless  hatred  were  torturing  me.  I  could  not 
but  admit  that  the  prince  really  was  a  very 
agreeable  young  man.  ...  I  devoured  him 
with  my  eyes ;  I  really  believe  I  forgot  to 
blink  as  usual,  as  I  stared  at  him.  He  talked 
not  to  Liza  alone,  but  all  he  said  was  of  course 
really  for  her.  He  must  have  felt  me  a  great 
bore.  He  most  likely  guessed  directly  that  it 
was  a  discarded  lover  he  had  to  deal  with,  but 
from  sympathy  for  me,  and  also  a  profound 
sense  of  my  absolute  harmlessness,  he  treated 
me  with  extraordinary  gentleness.  You  can 
fancy  how  this  wounded  me  !  In  the  course  of 
the  evening  I  tried,  I  remember,  to  smooth 
over  my  mistake.  I  positively  (don't  laugh  at 
me,  whoever  you  may  be,  who  chance  to  look 
through  these  lines — especially  as  it  was  my 
last  illusion  ...)...!,  positively,  in  the  midst  of 
my  different  sufferings,  imagined  all  of  a  sudden 
that  Liza  wanted  to  punish  me  for  my  haughty 
coldness  at  the  beginning  of  my  visit,  that  she 
was  angry  with  me  and  only  flirting  with  the 
prince  from  pique.  ...   I  seized  my  opportunity 

46 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

and  with  a  meek  but  gracious  smile,  I  went  up 
to  her,  and  muttered — '  Enough,  forgive  me, 
not  that  I  'm  afraid  .  .  .'  and  suddenly,  without 
awaiting  her  reply,  I  gave  my  features  an  extra- 
ordinarily cheerful  and  free-and-easy  expres- 
sion, with  a  set  grin,  passed  my  hand  above  my 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  ceiling  (I  wanted, 
I  remember,  to  set  my  cravat  straight),  and 
was  even  on  the  point  of  pirouetting  round  on 
one  foot,  as  though  to  say,  'All  is  over,  I  am 
happy,  let 's  all  be  happy,' — I  did  not,  however, 
execute  this  manoeuvre,  as  I  was  afraid  of  losing 
my  balance,  owing  to  an  unnatural  stiffness  in 
my  knees.  .  .  .  Liza  failed  absolutely  to  under- 
stand me ;  she  looked  in  my  face  with  amaze- 
ment, gave  a  hasty  smile,  as  though  she  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  me  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
again  approached  the  prince.  Blind  and  deaf 
as  I  was,  I  could  not  but  be  inwardly  aware 
that  she  was  not  in  the  least  angry,  and  was  not 
annoyed  with  me  at  that  instant :  she  simply 
never  gave  me  a  thought.  The  blow  was  a 
final  one.  My  last  hopes  were  shattered  with 
a  crash,  just  as  a  block  of  ice,  thawed  by  the 
sunshine  of  spring,  suddenly  falls  into  tiny 
morsels.  I  was  utterly  defeated  at  the  first 
skirmish,  and,  like  the  Prussians  at  Jena,  lost 
everything  at  once  in  one  day.  No,  she  was 
not  angry  with  me  !  .  .  . 

47 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Alas,  it  was  quite  the  contrary  !  She  too — I 
saw  that — was  being  swept  off  her  feet  by  the 
torrent.  Like  a  young  tree,  already  half  torn 
from  the  bank,  she  bent  eagerly  over  the  stream, 
ready  to  abandon  to  it  for  ever  the  first  blossom 
of  her  spring  and  her  whole  life.  A  man 
whose  fate  it  has  been  to  be  the  witness  of  such 
a  passion,  has  lived  through  bitter  moments  if 
he  has  loved  himself  and  not  been  loved.  I 
shall  for  ever  remember  that  devouring  atten- 
tion, that  tender  gaiety,  that  innocent  self- 
oblivion,  that  glance,  still  a  child's  and  already 
a  woman's,  that  happy,  as  it  were  flowering 
smile  that  never  left  the  half-parted  lips  and 
glowing  cheeks.  .  .  .  All  that  Liza  had  vaguely 
foreshadowed  during  our  walk  in  the  wood  had 
come  to  pass  now — and  she,  as  she  gave  her- 
self up  utterly  to  love,  was  at  once  stiller  and 
brighter,  like  new  wine,  which  ceases  to  ferment 
because  its  full  maturity  has  come.  .  .  . 

I  had  the  fortitude  to  sit  through  that  first 
evening  and  the  subsequent  evenings  ...  all 
to  the  end  !  I  could  have  no  hope  of  anything. 
Liza  and  the  prince  became  every  day  more 
devoted  to  each  other  .  .  .  But  I  had  absolutely 
lost  all  sense  of  personal  dignity,  and  could  not 
tear  myself  away  from  the  spectacle  of  my  own 
misery.  I  remember  one  day  I  tried  not  to  go, 
swore  to  myself  in  the  morning  that  I  would 

48 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

stay  at  home,  and  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  (I  usually  set  off  at  seven)  leaped  up 
like  a  madman,  put  on  my  hat,  and  ran  breath- 
less into  Kirilla  Matveitch's  drawing-room. 
My  position  was  excessively  absurd.  I  was 
obstinately  silent ;  sometimes  for  whole  days 
together  I  did  not  utter  a  sound.  I  was,  as  I 
have  said  already,  never  distinguished  for 
eloquence  ;  but  now  everything  I  had  in  my 
mind  took  flight,  as  it  were,  in  the  presence  of 
the  prince,  and  I  was  left  bare  and  bereft. 
Besides,  when  I  was  alone,  I  set  my  wretched 
brain  working  so  hard,  slowly  going  over  every- 
thing I  had  noticed  or  surmised  during  the 
preceding  day,  that  when  I  went  back  to  the 
Ozhogins'  I  scarcely  had  energy  left  to  observe 
again.  They  treated  me  considerately,  as  a 
sick  person ;  I  saw  that  Every  morning  I 
adopted  some  new,  final  resolution,  for  the 
most  part  painfully  hatched  in  the  course  of 
a  sleepless  night.  At  one  time  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  have  it  out  with  Liza,  to  give  her 
friendly  advice  .  .  .  but  when  I  chanced  to  be 
alone  with  her,  my  tongue  suddenly  ceased  to 
work,  froze  as  it  were,  and  we  both,  in  great 
discomfort,  waited  for  the  entrance  of  some 
third  person.  Another  time  I  meant  to  run 
away,  of  course  for  ever,  leaving  my  beloved  a 
letter  full  of  reproaches,  and  I  even  one  day 
D  49 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

began  this  letter ;  but  the  sense  of  justice  had 
not  yet  quite  vanished  in  me.  I  realised  that  I 
had  no  right  to  reproach  any  one  for  anything, 
and  I  flung  what  I  had  written  in  the  fire. 
Then  I  suddenly  offered  myself  up  wholly  as  a 
sacrifice,  gave  Liza  my  benediction,  praying  for 
her  happiness,  and  smiled  in  meek  and  friendly 
fashion  from  my  corner  at  the  prince.  But  the 
cruel-hearted  lovers  not  only  never  thanked  me 
for  my  self-sacrifice,  they  never  even  noticed 
me,  and  were,  apparently,  quite  ready  to  dis- 
pense with  my  smiles  and  my  blessings.  .  .  . 
Then,  in  wrath,  I  suddenly  flew  into  quite  the 
opposite  mood.  I  swore  to  myself,  wrapping 
my  cloak  about  me  like  a  Spaniard,  to  rush  out 
from  some  dark  corner  and  stab  my  lucky 
rival,  and  with  brutal  glee  I  imagined  Liza's 
despair.  .  .  .  But,  in  the  first  place,  such  corners 

were  few  in  the  town  of  O ;  and,  secondly 

— the  wooden  fence,  the  street  lamp,  the  police- 
man in  the  distance.  .  .  .  No !  in  such  corners 
it  was  somehow  far  more  suitable  to  sell  buns 
and  oranges  than  to  shed  human  blood.  I 
must  own  that,  among  other  means  of  deliver- 
ance, as  I  very  vaguely  expressed  it  in  my 
colloquies  with  myself,  I  did  entertain  the  idea 
of  having  recourse  to  Ozhogin  himself  ...  of 
calling  the  attention  of  that  nobleman  to  the 
perilous    situation    of    his    daughter,  and    the 

50 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS    MAN 

mournful  consequences  of  her  indiscretion.  .  .  . 
I  even  once  began  speaking  to  him  on  a  certain 
delicate  subject ;  but  my  remarks  were  so  in- 
direct and  misty,  that  after  listening  and 
listening  to  me,  he  suddenly,  as  it  were,  waking 
up,  rubbed  his  hand  rapidly  and  vigorously  all 
over  his  face,  not  sparing  his  nose,  gave  a  snort, 
and  walked  away  from  me.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that  in  resolving  on  this  step  I  persuaded 
myself  that  I  was  acting  from  the  most  dis- 
interested motives,  was  desirous  of  the  general 
welfare,  and  was  doing  my  duty  as  a  friend  of 
the  house.  .  .  .  But  I  venture  to  think  that  even 
had  Kirilla  Matveitch  not  cut  short  my  out- 
pourings, I  should  in  any  case  not  have  had 
courage  to  finish  my  monologue.  At  times  I 
set  to  work  with  all  the  solemnity  of  some  sage 
of  antiquity,  weighing  the  qualities  of  the  prince ; 
at  times  I  comforted  myself  with  the  hope  that 
it  was  all  of  no  consequence,  that  Liza  would 
recover  her  senses,  that  her  love  was  not  real 
love  .  .  .  oh,  no  !  In  short,  I  know  no  idea 
that  I  did  not  worry  myself  with  at  that  time. 
There  was  only  one  resource  which  never,  I 
candidly  admit,  entered  my  head  :  I  never  once 
thought  of  taking  my  life.  Why  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Possibly,  even 
then,  I  had  a  presentiment  I  should  not  have 
long  to  live  in  any  case. 

51 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

It  will  be  readily  understood  that  in  such 
unfavourable  circumstances  my  manner,  my 
behaviour  with  people,  was  more  than  ever 
marked  by  unnaturalness  and  constraint.  Even 
Madame  Ozhogin — that  creature  dull-witted 
from  her  birth  up — began  to  shun  me,  and  at 
times  did  not  know  in  what  way  to  approach 
me.  Bizmyonkov,  always  polite  and  ready  to 
do  services,  avoided  me.  I  fancied  even  at  that 
time  that  I  had  in  him  a  companion  in  mis- 
fortune— that  he  too  loved  Liza.  But  he  never 
responded  to  my  hints,  and  altogether  showed 
a  reluctance  to  converse  with  me.  The  prince 
behaved  in  a  very  friendly  way  to  him  ;  the 
prince,  one  might  say,  respected  him.  Neither 
Bizmyonkov  nor  I  was  any  obstacle  to  the 
prince  and  Liza ;  but  he  did  not  shun  them  as 
I  did,  nor  look  savage  nor  injured — and  readily 
joined  them  when  they  desired  it.  It  is  true 
that  on  such  occasions  he  was  not  conspicuous 
for  any  special  mirthfulness ;  but  his  good- 
humour  had  always  been  somewhat  subdued 
in  character. 

In  this  fashion  about  a  fortnight  passed  by. 
The  prince  was  not  only  handsome  and  clever  : 
he  played  the  piano,  sang,  sketched  fairly  well, 
and  was  a  good  hand  at  telling  stories.  His 
anecdotes,  drawn  from  the  highest  circles  of 
Petersburg  society,  always   made  a  great  im- 

52 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

pression  on  his  audience,  all  the  more  so  from 
the  fact  that  he  seemed  to  attach  no  importance 
to  them.  .  .  . 

The  consequence  of  this,  if  you  like,  simple 
accomplishment  of  the  prince's  was  that  in  the 
course  of  his  not  very  protracted  stay  in  the 

town  of  O he  completely  fascinated  all  the 

neighbourhood.  To  fascinate  us  poor  dwellers 
in  the  steppes  is  at  all  times  a  very  easy  task 
for  any  one  coming  from  higher  spheres.  The 
prince's  frequent  visits  to  the  Ozhogins  (he  used 
to  spend  his  evenings  there)  of  course  aroused 
the  jealousy  of  the  other  worthy  gentry  and 
officials  of  the  town.  But  the  prince,  like  a 
clever  person  and  a  man  of  the  world,  never 
neglected  a  single  one  of  them ;  he  called  on  all 
of  them  ;  to  every  married  lady  and  every  un- 
married miss  he  addressed  at  least  one  flattering 
phrase,  allowed  them  to  feed  him  on  elaborately 
solid  edibles,  and  to  make  him  drink  wretched 
wines  with  magnificent  names  ;  and  conducted 
himself,  in  short,  like  a  model  of  caution  and 

tact.  Prince  N was  in  general  a  man  of  lively 

manners,  sociable  and  genial  by  inclination, 
and  in  this  case  incidentally  from  prudential 
motives  also ;  he  could  not  fail  to  be  a  complete 
success  in  everything. 

Ever  since  his  arrival,  all  in  the  house  had 
felt  that  the  time  had  flown  by  with  unusual 

53 


THE  DIARY   OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

rapidity ;  everything  had  gone  off  beautifully. 
Papa  Ozhogin,  though  he  pretended  that  he 
noticed  nothing,  was  doubtless  rubbing  his 
hands  in  private  at  the  idea  of  such  a  son-in- 
law.  The  prince,  for  his  part,  managed  matters 
with  the  utmost  sobriety  and  discretion,  when, 
all  of  a  sudden,  an  unexpected  incident  .  .  . 

Till  to-morrow.  To-day  I  'm  tired.  These 
recollections  irritate  me  even  at  the  edge  of  the 
grave.  Terentyevna  noticed  to-day  that  my 
nose  has  already  begun  to  grow  sharp ;  and 
that,  they  say,  is  a  bad  sign. 


54 


THE   DIARY   OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


March  27.     Thaw  continuing. 

Things  were  in  the  position  described  above: 
the  prince  and  Liza  were  in  love  with  each 
other ;  the  old  Ozhogins  were  waiting  to  see 
what  would  come  of  it ;  Bizmyonkov  was  present 
at  the  proceedings — there  was  nothing  else  to 
be  said  of  him.  I  was  struggling  like  a  fish  on 
the  ice,  and  watching  with  all  my  might, — I 
remember  that  at  that  time  I  set  myself  the  task 
of  preventing  Liza  at  least  from  falling  into  the 
snares  of  a  seducer,  and  consequently  began 
paying  particular  attention  to  the  maidservants 
and  the  fateful  'back  stairs' — though,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  often  spent  whole  nights  in  dream- 
ing with  what  touching  magnanimity  I  would 
one  day  hold  out  a  hand  to  the  betrayed  victim 
and  say  to  her,  '  The  traitor  has  deceived  thee ; 
but  I  am  thy  true  friend  ...  let  us  forget  the 
past  and  be  happy  ! ' — when  sudden  and  glad 
tidings  overspread  the  whole  town.  The 
marshal  of  the  district  proposed  to  give  a  great 
ball  in  honour  of  their  respected  guest,  on  his 
private  estate  Gornostaevka.     All   the   official 

world,  big   and   little,   of  the  town   of   O 

received  invitations,  from  the  mayor  down  to 
the  apothecary,  an  excessively  emaciated 
German,  with  ferocious  pretensions  to  a  good 

55 


THE   DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Russian  accent,  which  led  him  into  continually 
and  quite  inappropriately  employing  racy  collo- 
quialisms. .  .  .  Tremendous  preparations  were, 
of  course,  put  in  hand.  One  purveyor  of 
cosmetics  sold  sixteen  dark  -  blue  jars  of 
pomatum,  which  bore  the  inscription  a  lajesmin. 
The  young  ladies  provided  themselves  with 
tight  dresses,  agonising  in  the  waist  and  jutting 
out  sharply  over  the  stomach  ;  the  mammas 
put  formidable  erections  on  their  heads  by  way 
of  caps  ;  the  busy  papas  were  half  dead  with 
the  bustle.  The  longed-for  day  arrived  at  last. 
I  was  among  those  invited.  From  the  town  to 
Gornostaevka  was  reckoned  between  seven  and 
eight  miles.  Kirilla  Matveitch  offered  me  a 
seat  in  his  coach ;  but  I  refused.  .  .  In  the 
same  way  children,  who  have  been  punished, 
wishing  to  pay  their  parents  out,  refuse  their 
favourite  dainties  at  table.  Besides,  I  felt  that 
my  presence  would  be  felt  as  a  constraint  by 
Liza.  Bizmyonkov  took  my  place.  The  prince 
drove  in  his  own  carriage,  and  I  in  a  wretched 
little  droshky,  hired  for  an  immense  sum  for 
this  solemn  occasion.  I  am  not  going  to  describe 
that  ball.  Everything  about  it  was  just  as  it 
always  is.  There  was  a  band,  with  trumpets 
extraordinarily  out  of  tune,  in  the  gallery  ;  there 
were  country  gentlemen,  greatly  flustered,  with 
their  inevitable   families,  mauve   ices,   viscous 

56 


THE   DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

lemonade  ;  servants  in  boots  trodden  down  at 
heel  and  knitted  cotton  gloves  ;  provincial  lions 
with  spasmodically  contorted  faces,  and  so  on 
and  so  on.  And  all  this  little  world  was  revolv- 
ing round  its  sun — round  the  prince.  Lost  in 
the  crowd,  unnoticed  even  by  the  young  ladies 
of  eight-and-forty,  with  red  pimples  on  their 
brows  and  blue  flowers  on  the  top  of  their 
heads,  I  stared  incessantly,  first  at  the  prince, 
then  at  Liza.  She  was  very  charmingly  dressed 
and  very  pretty  that  evening.  They  only  twice 
danced  together  (it  is  true,  he  danced  the 
mazurka  with  her)  ;  but  it  seemed,  to  me  at 
least,  that  there  was  a  sort  of  secret,  continuous 
communication  between  them.  Even  while  not 
looking  at  her,  while  not  speaking  to  her,  he 
was  still,  as  it  were,  addressing  her,  and  her 
alone.  He  was  handsome  and  brilliant  and 
charming  with  other  people — for  her  sake  only. 
She  was  apparently  conscious  that  she  was  the 
queen  of  the  ball,  and  that  she  was  loved. 
Her  face  at  once  beamed  with  childlike  delight 
and  innocent  pride,  and  was  suddenly  illumi- 
nated by  another,  deeper  feeling.  Happiness 
radiated  from  her.  I  observed  all  this.  ...  It 
was  not  the  first  time  I  had  watched  them.  .  .  . 
At  first  this  wounded  me  intensely;  afterwards  it, 
as  it  were,  touched  me  ;  but,  finally,  it  infuriated 
me.     I  suddenly  felt  extraordinarily  wrathful, 

57 


THE   DIARY   OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

and,  I  remember,  was  extraordinarily  delighted 
at  this  new  sensation,  and  even  conceived  a 
certain  respect  for  myself.  '  We  '11  show  them 
we  're  not  crushed  yet,'  I  said  to  myself.  When 
the  first  inviting  notes  of  the  mazurka  sounded, 
I  looked  about  me  with  composure,  and  with 
a  cool  and  easy  air  approached  a  long-faced 
young  lady  with  a  red  and  shiny  nose,  a  mouth 
that  stood  awkwardly  open,  as  though  it  had 
come  unbuttoned,  and  a  scraggy  neck  that 
recalled  the  handle  of  a  bass-viol.  I  went  up  to 
her,  and,  with  a  perfunctory  scrape  of  my  heels, 
invited  her  to  the  dance.  She  was  wearing  a 
dress  of  faded  rosebud  pink,  not  full-blown 
rose  colour  ;  on  her  head  quivered  a  striped  and 
dejected  beetle  of  some  sort  on  a  thick  bronze 
pin  ;  and  altogether  this*  lady  was,  if  one  may 
so  express  it,  soaked  through  and  through  with 
a  sort  of  sour  ennui  and  inveterate  lack  of 
success.  From  the  very  commencement  of  the 
evening  she  had  not  once  stirred  from  her  seat ; 
no  one  had  thought  of  asking  her  to  dance. 
One  flaxen-headed  youth  of  sixteen  had,  through 
lack  of  a  partner,  been  on  the  point  of  address- 
ing this  lady,  and  had  taken  a  step  in  her 
direction,  but  had  thought  better  of  it,  stared  at 
her,  and  hurriedly  dived  into  the  crowd.  You 
can  fancy  with  what  joyful  amazement  she 
agreed  to  my  proposal !     I  led  her  in  triumph 

58 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

right  across  the  ballroom,  picked  out  two 
chairs,  and  sat  down  with  her  in  the  ring  of  the 
mazurka,  among  ten  couples,  almost  opposite 
the  prince,  who  had,  of  course,  been  offered  the 
first  place.  The  prince,  as  I  have  said  already, 
was  dancing  with  Liza.  Neither  I  nor  my 
partner  was  disturbed  by  invitations ;  conse- 
quently, we  had  plenty  of  time  for  conversa- 
tion. To  tell  the  truth,  my  partner  was  not 
conspicuous  for  her  capacity  for  the  utterance 
of  words  in  consecutive  speech  ;  she  used  her 
mouth  principally  for  the  achievement  of  a 
strange  downward  smile  such  as  I  had  never 
till  then  beheld  ;  while  she  raised  her  eyes  up- 
ward, as  though  some  unseen  force  were  pulling 
her  face  in  two.  But  I  did  not  feel  her  lack  of 
eloquence.  Happily  I  felt  full  of  wrath,  and 
my  partner  did  not  make  me  shy.  I  fell  to 
finding  fault  with  everything  and  every  one  in 
the  world,  with  especial  emphasis  on  town- 
bred  youngsters  and  Petersburg  dandies  ;  and 
went  to  such  lengths  at  last,  that  my  partner 
gradually  ceased  smiling,  and  instead  of  turning 
her  eyes  upward,  began  suddenly — from  as- 
tonishment, I  suppose — to  squint,  and  that  so 
strangely,  as  though  she  had  for  the  first  time 
observed  the  fact  that  she  had  a  nose  on  her 
face.  And  one  of  the  lions,  referred  to  above, 
who  was  sitting  next  me,  did  not  once  take  his 

59 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

eyes  off  me  ;  he  positively  turned  to  me  with 
the  expression  of  an  actor  on  the  stage,  who 
has  waked  up  in  an  unfamiliar  place,  as  though 
he  would  say,  '  Is  it  really  you  ! '  While  I 
poured  forth  this  tirade,  I  still,  however,  kept 
watch  on  the  prince  and  Liza.  They  were 
continually  invited  ;  but  I  suffered  less  when 
they  were  both  dancing  ;  and  even  when  they 
were  sitting  side  by  side,  and  smiling  as  they 
talked  to  each  other  that  sweet  smile  which 
hardly  leaves  the  faces  of  happy  lovers,  even 
then  I  was  not  in  such  torture ;  but  when  Liza 
flitted  across  the  room  with  some  desperate 
dandy  of  an  hussar,  while  the  prince  with  her 
blue  gauze  scarf  on  his  knees  followed  her 
dreamily  with  his  eyes,  as  though  delighting  in 
his  conquest  ; — then,  oh  !  then,  I  went  through 
intolerable  agonies,  and  in  my  anger  gave  vent 
to  such  spiteful  observations,  that  the  pupils  of 
my  partner's  eyes  simply  fastened  on  her  nose ! 
Meanwhile  the  mazurka  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  They  were  beginning  the  figure  called 
la  cojifidente.  In  this  figure  the  lady  sits  in  the 
middle  of  a  circle,  chooses  another  lady  as  her 
confidant,  and  whispers  in  her  ear  the  name  of 
the  gentleman  with  whom  she  wishes  to  dance. 
Her  partner  conducts  one  after  another  of  the 
dancers  to  her ;  but  the  lady,  who  is  in  the  secret, 
refuses  them,  till  at  last  the  happy  man  fixed 

60 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

on  beforehand  arrives.  Liza  sat  in  the  middle 
of  the  circle  and  chose  the  daughter  of  the  host, 
one  of  those  young  ladies  of  whom  one  says, 
'  God  help  them  ! '  .  .  .  The  prince  proceeded  to 
discover  her  choice.  After  presenting  about  a 
dozen  young  men  to  her  in  vain  (the  daughter 
of  the  house  refused  them  all  with  the  most 
amiable  of  smiles),  he  at  last  turned  to  me. 
Something  extraordinary  took  place  within  me 
at  that  instant ;  I,  as  it  were,  twitched  all  over, 
and  would  have  refused,  but  got  up  and  went 
along.  The  prince  conducted  me  to  Liza.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  even  look  at  me ;  the  daughter  of 
the  house  shook  her  head  in  refusal,  the  prince 
turned  to  me,  and,  probably  incited  by  the  goose- 
like expression  of  my  face,  made  me  a  deep 
bow.  This  sarcastic  bow,  this  refusal,  trans- 
mitted to  me  through  my  triumphant  rival, 
his  careless  smile,  Liza's  indifferent  inattention, 
all  this  lashed  me  to  frenzy.  ...  I  moved  up 
to  the  prince  and  whispered  furiously,  '  You 
think  fit  to  laugh  at  me,  it  seems  ? ' 

The  prince  looked  at  me  with  contemptuous 
surprise,  took  my  arm  again,  and  making  a 
show  of  re-conducting  me  to  my  seat,  answered 
coldly,  '  I  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  you ! '  I  went  on  in  a  whisper,  obey- 
ing, however — that  is  to  say,  following  him 
to    my    place ;    '  you ;    but    I    do   not   intend 

6i 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

to  permit  any  empty-headed  Petersburg  up- 
start  ' 

The  prince  smiled  tranquilly,  almost  con- 
descendingly, pressed  my  arm,  whispered,  '  I 
understand  you  ;  but  this  is  not  the  place ;  we 
will  have  a  word  later,'  turned  away  from  me, 
went  up  to  Bizmyonkov,  and  led  him  up  to 
Liza.  The  pale  little  official  turned  out  to 
be  the  chosen  partner.  Liza  got  up  to  meet 
him. 

Sitting  beside  my  partner  with  the  dejected 
beetle  on  her  head,  I  felt  almost  a  hero.  My 
heart  beat  violently,  my  breast  heaved  gallantly 
under  my  starched  shirt  front,  I  drew  deep  and 
hurried  breaths,  and  suddenly  gave  the  local 
lion  near  me  such  a  magnificent  glare  that 
there  was  an  involuntary  quiver  of  his  foot  in 
my  direction.  Having  disposed  of  this  person, 
I  scanned  the  whole  circle  of  dancers.  ...  I 
fancied  two  or  three  gentlemen  were  staring  at 
me  with  some  perplexity  ;  but,  in  general,  my 
conversation  with  the  prince  had  passed  un- 
noticed. .  .  .  My  rival  was  already  back  in  his 
chair,  perfectly  composed,  and  with  the  same 
smile  on  his  face.  Bizmyonkov  led  Liza  back 
to  her  place.  She  gave  him  a  friendly  bow,  and 
at  once  turned  to  the  prince,  as  I  fancied,  with 
some  alarm.  But  he  laughed  in  response,  with 
a  graceful  wave  of  his  hand,  and  must  have  said 

62 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

something  very  agreeable  to  her,  for  she  flushed 
with  delight,  dropped  her  eyes,  and  then  bent 
them  with  affectionate  reproach  upon  him. 

The  heroic  frame  of  mind,  which  had  sud- 
denly developed  in  me,  had  not  disappeared  by 
the  end  of  the  mazurka  ;  but  I  did  not  indulge 
in  any  more  epigrams  or  '  quizzing.'  I  con- 
tented myself  with  glancing  occasionally  with 
gloomy  severity  at  my  partner,  who  was  ob- 
viously beginning  to  be  afraid  of  me,  and  was 
utterly  tongue-tied  and  continuously  blinking 
by  the  time  I  placed  her  under  the  protection 
of  her  mother,  a  very  fat  woman  with  a  red 
cap  on  her  head.  Having  consigned  the  scared 
maiden  lady  to  her  natural  belongings,  I  turned 
away  to  a  window,  folded  my  arms,  and  began 
to  await  what  would  happen.  I  had  rather  long  to 
wait.  The  prince  was  the  whole  time  surrounded 
by  his  host — surrounded,  simply,  as  England  is 
surrounded  by  the  sea, — to  say  nothing  of  the 
other  members  of  the  marshal's  family  and  the 
rest  of  the  guests.  And  besides,  he  could 
hardly  go  up  to  such  an  insignificant  person 
as  me  and  begin  to  talk  without  arousing  a 
general  feeling  of  surprise.  This  insignificance, 
I  remember,  was  positively  a  joy  to  me  at  the 
time.  '  All  right,'  I  thought,  as  I  watched  him 
courteously  addressing  first  one  and  then  an- 
other highly  respected  personage,  honoured  by 

63 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

his  notice,  if  only  for  an  '  instant's  flash,'  as  the 
poets  say ; — '  all  right,  my  dear  .  .  .  you  '11  come 
to  me  soon — I  've  insulted  you,  anyway.'  At 
last  the  prince,  adroitly  escaping  from  the 
throng  of  his  adorers,  passed  close  by  me, 
looked  somewhere  between  the  window  and 
my  hair,  was  turning  away,  and  suddenly  stood 
still,  as  though  he  had  recollected  something. 
*  Ah,  yes  ! '  he  said,  turning  to  me  with  a  smile, 
'  by  the  way,  I  have  a  little  matter  to  talk  to 
you  about' 

Two  country  gentlemen,  of  the  most  per- 
sistent, who  were  obstinately  pursuing  the 
prince,  probably  imagined  the  'little  matter' 
to  relate  to  official  business,  and  respectfully 
fell  back.  The  prince  took  my  arm  and  led 
me  apart.  My  heart  was  thumping  at  my 
ribs. 

'You,  I  believe,'  he  began,  emphasising  the 
word  you^  and  looking  at  my  chin  with  a  con- 
temptuous expression,  which,  strange  to  say, 
was  supremely  becoming  to  his  fresh  and 
handsome  face,  'you  said  something  abusive 
to  me  ? ' 

'  I  said  what  I  thought,'  I  replied,  raising  my 
voice. 

'  Sh  .  . .  quietly,'  he  observed  ;  '  decent  people 
don't  bawl.  You  would  like,  perhaps,  to  fight 
me?' 

64 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

'  That 's  your  affair,'  I  answered,  drawing 
myself  up. 

'  I  shall  be  obliged  to  challenge  you,'  he 
remarked  carelessly,  '  if  you  don't  withdraw 
your  expressions.  .  .  .' 

'  I  do  not  intend  to  withdraw  from  anything,' 
I  rejoined  with  pride. 

'  Really  ? '  he  observed,  with  an  ironical  smile. 
'  In  that  case,'  he  continued,  after  a  brief  pause, 
'  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  sending  my  second 
to  you  to-morrow.' 

'  Very  good,'  I  said  in  a  voice,  if  possible, 
even  more  indifferent. 

The  prince  gave  a  slight  bow. 

'  I  cannot  prevent  you  from  considering  me 
empty-headed,'  he  added,  with  a  haughty  droop 

of  his  eyelids  ;  '  but  the  Princes  N cannot 

be  upstarts.  Good-bye  till  we  meet,  Mr.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Shtukaturin.' 

He  quickly  turned  his  back  on  me,  and 
again  approached  his  host,  who  was  already 
beginning  to  get  excited. 

Mr.  Shtukaturin  !  .  .  .  My  name  is  Tchul- 
katurin.  ...  1  could  think  of  nothing  to  say 
to  him  in  reply  to  this  last  insult,  and  could 
only  gaze  after  him  with  fury.  '  Till  to-morrow,' 
I  muttered,  clenching  my  teeth,  and  I  at  once 
looked  for  an  officer  of  my  acquaintance,  a 
cavalry  captain  in  the  Uhlans,  called  Kolo- 
E  65 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS    MAN 

berdyaev,  a  desperate  rake,  and  a  very  good 
fellow.  To  him  I  related,  in  few  words,  my 
quarrel  with  the  prince,  and  asked  him  to  be 
my  second.  He,  of  course,  promptly  consented, 
and  I  went  home. 
•  I  could  not  sleep  all  night — from  excitement, 
\\  not  from  cowardice.  I  am  not  a  coward.  I 
positively  thought  very  little  of  the  possibility 
confronting  me  of  losing  my  life — that,  as  the 
Germans  assure  us,  highest  good  on  earth.  I 
could  think  only  of  Liza,  of  my  ruined  hopes, 
of  what  I  ought  to  do.  '  Ought  I  to  try  to  kill 
the  prince?'  I  asked  myself;  and,  of  course,  I 
wanted  to  kill  him — not  from  revenge,  but  from 
a  desire  for  Liza's  good.  '  But  she  will  not 
survive  such  a  blow,'  I  went  on.  '  No,  better 
let  him  kill  me ! '  I  must  own  it  was  an  agree- 
able reflection,  too,  that  I,  an  obscure  provincial 
person,  had  forced  a  man  of  such  consequence 
to  fight  a  duel  with  me. 

The  morning  light  found  me  still  absorbed 
in  these  reflections ;  and,  not  long  after  it, 
appeared  Koloberdyaev. 

'  Well,'  he  asked  me,  entering  my  room  with 
a  clatter,  '  where 's  the  prince's  second  ? ' 

'  Upon  my  word,'  I  answered  with  annoy- 
ance, '  it 's  seven  o'clock  at  the  most ;  the  prince 
is  still  asleep,  I  should  imagine.' 

'  In  that  case,'  replied  the  cavalry  officer,  in 

66 


THE   DIARY   OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

nowise  daunted,  '  order  some  tea  for  me.  My 
head  aches  from  yesterday  evening.  ...  I  've 
not  taken  my  clothes  off  all  night.  Though, 
indeed,'  he  added  with  a  yawn,  '  I  don't  as 
a  rule  often  take  my  clothes  off.' 

Some  tea  was  given  him.  He  drank  off  six 
glasses  of  tea  and  rum,  smoked  four  pipes,  told 
me  he  had  on  the  previous  day  bought,  for  next 
to  nothing,  a  horse  the  coachman  refused  to 
drive,  and  that  he  was  meaning  to  drive  her  out 
with  one  of  her  fore  legs  tied  up,  and  fell  asleep, 
without  undressing,  on  the  sofa,  with  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth.  I  got  up  and  put  my  papers  to 
rights.  One  note  of  invitation  from  Liza,  the 
one  note  I  had  received  from  her,  I  was  on  the 
point  of  putting  in  my  bosom,  but  on  second 
thoughts  I  flung  it  in  a  drawer.  Koloberdyaev 
was  snoring  feebly,  with  his  head  hanging  from 
the  leather  pillow.  .  .  .  For  a  long  while,  I  re- 
member, I  scrutinised  his  unkempt,  daring,  care- 
less, and  good-natured  face.  At  ten  o'clock  the 
man  announced  the  arrival  of  Bizmyonkov. 
The  prince  had  chosen  him  as  second. 

We  both  together  roused  the  soundly  sleep- 
ing cavalry  officer.  He  sat  up,  stared  at  us 
with  dim  eyes,  in  a  hoarse  voice  demanded 
vodka.  He  recovered  himself,  and  exchanging 
greetings  with  Bizmyonkov,  he  went  with  him 
into  the  next  room  to  arrange  matters.     The 

67 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

consultation  of  the  worthy  seconds  did  not  last 
long.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  they  both 
came  into  my  bedroom.  Koloberdyaev 
announced  to  me  that  '  we  're  going  to  fight 
to-day  at  three  o'clock  with  pistols.'  In  silence 
I  bent  my  head,  in  token  of  my  agreement. 
Bizmyonkov  at  once  took  leave  of  us,  and 
departed.  He  was  rather  pale  and  inwardly 
agitated,  like  a  man  unused  to  such  jobs,  but 
he  was,  nevertheless,  very  polite  and  chilly. 
I  felt,  as  it  were,  conscience-stricken  in  his 
presence,  and  did  not  dare  look  him  in  the 
face.  Koloberdyaev  began  telling  me  about 
his  horse.  This  conversation  was  very  welcome 
to  me.  I  was  afraid  he  would  mention  Liza. 
But  the  good-natured  cavalry  officer  was  not  a 
gossip,  and,  moreover,  he  despised  all  women, 
calling  them,  God  knows  why,  green  stuff.  At 
two  o'clock  we  had  lunch,  and  at  three  we 
were  at  the  place  fixed  upon — the  very  birch 
copse  in  which  I  had  once  walked  with  Liza,  a 
couple  of  yards  from  the  precipice. 

We  arrived  first ;  but  the  prince  and  Biz- 
myonkov did  not  keep  us  long  waiting.  The 
prince  was,  without  exaggeration,  as  fresh  as 
a  rose  ;  his  brown  eyes  looked  out  with  exces- 
sive cordiality  from  under  the  peak  of  his  cap. 
He  was  smoking  a  cigar,  and  on  seeing  Kolo- 
berdyaev shook  his   hand  in   a  friendly  way. 

68 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Even  to  me  he  bowed  very  genially.  I  was 
conscious,  on  the  contrary,  of  being  pale,  and 
my  hands,  to  my  terrible  vexation,  were  slightly 
trembling  .  .  .  my  throat  was  parched.  ...  I 
had  never  fought  a  duel  before.  '  O  God  ! '  I 
thought  ;  '  if  only  that  ironical  gentleman 
doesn't  take  my  agitation  for  timidity ! '  I 
was  inwardly  cursing  my  nerves  ;  but  glancing, 
at  last,  straight  in  the  prince's  face,  and  catch- 
ing on  his  lips  an  almost  imperceptible  smile, 
I  suddenly  felt  furious  again,  and  was  at  once 
at  my  ease.  Meanwhile,  our  seconds  were 
fixing  the  barrier,  measuring  out  the  paces, 
loading  the  pistols.  Koloberdyaev  did  most ; 
Bizmyonkov  rather  watched  him.  It  was  a 
magnificent  day — as  fine  as  the  day  of  that 
ever-memorable  walk.  The  thick  blue  of  the 
sky  peeped,  as  then,  through  the  golden  green 
of  the  leaves.  Their  lisping  seemed  to  mock 
me.  The  prince  went  on  smoking  his  cigar, 
leaning  with  his  shoulder  against  the  trunk 
of  a  young  lime-tree.  .  .  . 

'  Kindly  take  your  places,  gentlemen  ;  ready,' 
Koloberdyaev  pronounced  at  last,  handing  us 
pistols. 

The  prince  walked  a  few  steps  away,  stood 
still,  and,  turning  his  head,  asked  me  over  his 
shoulder,  '  You  still  refuse  to  take  back  your 
words,  then  ? ' 

69 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

I  tried  to  answer  him  ;  but  my  voice  failed 
me,  and  I  had  to  content  myself  with  a  con- 
temptuous wave  of  the  hand.  The  prince 
smiled  again,  and  took  up  his  position  in  his 
place.  We  began  to  approach  one  another.  I 
raised  my  pistol,  was  about  to  aim  at  my 
enemy's  chest — but  suddenly  tilted  it  up,  as 
though  some  one  had  given  my  elbow  a  shove, 
and  fired.  The  prince  tottered,  and  put  his  left 
hand  to  his  left  temple — a  thread  of  blood  was 
flowing  down  his  cheek  from  under  the  white 
leather  glove.     Bizmyonkov  rushed  up  to  him. 

*  It 's  all  right,'  he  said,  taking  off  his  cap, 
which  the  bullet  had  pierced ;  '  since  it 's  in 
the  head,  and  I  've  not  fallen,  it  must  be  a  mere 
scratch.' 

He  calmly  pulled  a  cambric  handkerchief  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  put  it  to  his  blood-stained 
curls. 

I  stared  at  him,  as  though  I  were  turned  to 
stone,  and  did  not  stir. 

'  Go  up  to  the  barrier,  if  you  please  ! '  Kolo- 
berdyaev  observed  severely. 

I  obeyed. 

'  Is  the  duel  to  go  on  ? '  he  added,  addressing 
Bizmyonkov. 

Bizmyonkov  made  him  no  answer.  But  the 
prince,  without  taking  the  handkerchief  from 
the   wound,  without   even   giving   himself  the 

70 


THE   DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

satisfaction  of  tormenting  me  at  the  barrier, 
replied  with  a  smile,  '  The  duel  is  at  an  end/ 
and  fired  into  the  air.  I  was  almost  crying 
with  rage  and  vexation.  This  man  by  his 
magnanimity  had  utterly  trampled  me  in  the 
mud  ;  he  had  completely  crushed  me.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  making  objections,  on  the  point  of 
demanding  that  he  should  fire  at  me.  But  he 
came  up  to  me,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

'  It 's  all  forgotten  between  us,  isn't  it  ? '  he 
said  in  a  friendly  voice. 

I  looked  at  his  blanched  face,  at  the  blood- 
stained handkerchief,  and  utterly  confounded, 
put  to  shame,  and  annihilated,  I  pressed  his 
hand. 

'Gentlemen  ! '  he  added,  turning  to  the 
seconds,  '  everything,  I  hope,  will  be  kept 
secret  ? ' 

*  Of  course!'  cried  Koloberdyaev  ;  'but, 
prince,  allow  me  .  .  .' 

And  he  himself  bound  up  his  head. 

The  prince,  as  he  went  away,  bowed  to  me 
once  more.  But  Bizmyonkov  did  not  even 
glance  at  me.  Shattered — morally  shattered — 
I  went  homewards  with  Koloberdyaev. 

'Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you?'  the 
cavalry  captain  asked  me.  '  Set  your  mind  at 
rest ;  the  wound  's  not  serious.  He  '11  be  able 
to  dance  by  to-morrow,  if  you  like.     Or  are  you 

71 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

sorry  you  didn't   kill   him  ?     You  're  wrong,  if 
you  are  ;  he  's  a  first-rate  fellow.' 

'  What  business  had  he  to  spare  me ! '  I 
muttered  at  last. 

'  Oh,  so  that's  it ! '  the  cavalry  captain  rejoined 
tranquilly.  .  .  .  '  Ugh,  you  writing  fellows  are 
too  much  for  me  ! ' 

I  don't  know  what  put  it  into  his  head  to 
consider  me  an  author. 

I  absolutely  decline  to  describe  my  torments 
during  the  evening  following  upon  that  luckless 
duel.  My  vanity  suffered  indescribably.  It 
was  not  my  conscience  that  tortured  me ;  the 
consciousness  of  my  imbecility  crushed  me.  '  I 
have  given  myself  the  last  decisive  blow  by  my 
own  act  !  '  I  kept  repeating,  as  I  strode  up 
and  down  my  room.  '  The  prince,  wounded  by 
me,  and  forgiving  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  Liza  is  now  his. 
Now  nothing  can  save  her,  nothing  can  hold 
her  back  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss.'  I  knew 
very  well  that  our  duel  could  not  be  kept 
secret,  in  spite  of  the  prince's  words  ;  in  any 
case,  it  could  not  remain  a  secret  for  Liza. 

'  The  prince  is  not  such  a  fool,'  1  murmured 
in  a  frenzy  of  rage,  '  as  not  to  profit  by  it.'  .  .  . 
But,  meanwhile,  I  was  mistaken.  The  whole 
town  knew  of  the  duel  and  of  its  real  cause 
next  day,  of  course.  But  the  prince  had 
not  blabbed  of  it ;  on  the  contrary,  when,  with 

72 


THE  DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

his  head  bandaged  and  an  explanation  ready, 
he  made  his  appearance  before  Liza,  she  had 
already  heard  everything.  .  .  .  Whether  Biz- 
myonkov  had  betrayed  me,  or  the  news  had 
reached  her  by  other  channels,  I  cannot  say. 
Though,  indeed,  can  anything  ever  be  concealed 
in  a  little  town?  You  can  fancy  how  Liza 
received  him,  how  all  the  family  of  the 
Ozhogins  received  him  !  As  for  me,  I  suddenly 
became  an  object  of  universal  indignation  and 
loathing,  a  monster,  a  jealous  bloodthirsty 
madman.  My  few  acquaintances  shunned  me 
as  if  I  were  a  leper.  The  authorities  of  the 
town  promptly  addressed  the  prince,  with  a 
proposal  to  punish  me  in  a  severe  and  befitting 
manner.  Nothing  but  the  persistent  and 
urgent  entreaties  of  the  prince  himself  averted 
the  calamity  that  menaced  me.  That  man  was 
fated  to  annihilate  me  in  every  way.  By  his 
generosity  he  had  shut,  as  it  were,  a  coffin-lid 
down  upon  me.  It's  needless  to  say  that  the 
Ozhogins'  doors  were  at  once  closed  against  me. 
Kirilla  Matveitch  even  sent  me  back  a  bit  of 
pencil  I  had  left  in  his  house.  In  reality,  he, 
of  all  people,  had  no  reason  to  be  angry  with  me. 
My  'insane '  (that  was  the  expression  current  in 
the  town)  jealousy  had  pointed  out,  defined, 
so  to  speak,  the  relations  of  the  prince  to  Liza. 
Both  the  old  Ozhogins  themselves   and   their 

73 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

fellow-citizens  began  to  look  on  him  almost  as 
betrothed  to  her.  This  could  not,  as  a  fact, 
have  been  quite  to  his  liking.  But  he  was 
greatly  attracted  by  Liza ;  and  meanwhile,  he 
had  not  at  that  time  attained  his  aims.  With 
all  the  adroitness  of  a  clever  man  of  the  world, 
he  took  advantage  of  his  new  position,  and 
promptly  entered,  as  they  say,  into  the  spirit  of 
his  new  part.  .  .  . 

But  I !  .  .  .  For  myself,  for  my  future,  I 
renounced  all  hopes,  at  that  time.  When 
suffering  reaches  the  point  of  making  our  whole 
being  creak  and  groan,  like  an  overloaded  cart, 
it  ought  to  cease  to  be  ridiculous  .  .  .  but 
no !  laughter  not  only  accompanies  tears  to 
the  end,  to  exhaustion,  to  the  impossibility 
of  shedding  more — it  even  rings  and  echoes, 
where  the  tongue  is  dumb,  and  complaint  itself 
is  dead.  .  .  .  And  so,  as  in  the  first  place  I 
don't  intend  to  expose  myself  as  ridiculous, 
even  to  myself,  and  secondly  as  I  am  fearfully 
tired,  I  will  put  off  the  continuation,  and  please 
God  the  conclusion,  of  my  story  till  to- 
morrow. .  .  . 


74 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

March  29. 
A  slight  frost ;  yesterday  it  was  thawittg. 

Yesterday  I  had  not  the  strength  to  go  on 
with  my  diary  ;  Hke  Poprishtchin,  I  lay,  for  the 
most  part,  on  my  bed,  and  talked  to  Terenty- 
evna.  What  a  woman  !  Sixty  years  ago  she 
lost  her  first  betrothed  from  the  plague,  she  has 
outlived  all  her  children,  she  is  inexcusably  old, 
drinks  tea  to  her  heart's  desire,  is  well  fed,  and 
warmly  clothed  ;  and  what  do  you  suppose  she 
was  talking  to  me  about,  all  day  yesterday  ? 
I  had  sent  another  utterly  destitute  old  woman 
the  collar  of  an  old  livery,  half  moth-eaten,  to 
put  on  her  vest  (she  wears  strips  over  the 
chest  by  way  of  vest)  .  .  .  and  why  wasn't  it 
given  to  her  ?  '  But  I'm  your  nurse  ;  I  should 
think  .  .  .  Oh  .  .  .  oh,  my  good  sir,  it 's  too 
bad  of  you  .  .  .  after  I  've  looked  after  you  as 
I  have ! '  .  .  .  and  so  on.  The  merciless  old 
woman  utterly  wore  me  out  with  her  re- 
proaches. .  .  .  But  to  get  back  to  my  story. 

And  so,  I  suffered  like  a  dog,  whose  hind- 
quarters have^  been  run  over  by  a  wheel.  It 
was  only  then,  only  after  my  banishment 
from  the  Ozhogins'  house,  that  I  fully  realised 
how  much  happiness  a  man  can  extract 
from  the  contemplation  of  his  own  un- 
happiness.       O    men !     pitiful     race,    indeed ! 

75 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS    MAN 

.  .  .  But,  away  with  philosophical  reflections. 
...  I  spent  my  days  in  complete  solitude,  and 
could  only  by  the  most  roundabout  and  even 
humiliating  methods  find  out  what  was  passing 
in  the  Ozhogins'  household,  and  what  the 
prince  was  doing.  My  man  had  made  friends 
with  the  cousin  of  the  latter's  coachman's  wife. 
This  acquaintance  afforded  me  some  slight 
relief,  and  my  man  soon  guessed,  from  my  hints 
and  little  presents,  what  he  was  to  talk  about 
to  his  master  when  he  pulled  his  boots  off  every 
evening.  Sometimes  I  chanced  to  meet  some 
one  of  the  Ozhogins'  family,  Bizmyonkov,  or 
the  prince  in  the  street.  .  .  .  To  the  prince  and 
to  Bizmyonkov  I  bowed,  but  I  did  not  enter 
into  conversation  with  them.  Liza  I  only  saw 
three  times  :  once,  with  her  mamma,  in  a 
fashionable  shop ;  once,  in  an  open  carriage 
with  her  father  and  mother  and  the  prince  ;  and 
once,  in  church.  Of  course,  I  was  not  impu- 
dent enough  to  approach  her,  and  only  watched 
her  from  a  distance.  In  the  shop  she  was  very 
much  preoccupied,  but  cheerful.  .  .  .  She  was 
ordering  something  for  herself,  and  busily 
matching  ribbons.  Her  mother  was  gazing  at 
her,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  and  her 
nose  in  the  air,  smiling  with  that  foolish  and 
devoted  smile  which  is  only  permissible  in 
adoring   mothers.      In    the   carriage   with   the 

76 


THE  DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

prince,  Liza  was  ...  I  shall  never  forget  that 
meeting !  The  old  people  were  sitting  in  the 
back  seats  of  the  carriage,  the  prince  and  Liza 
in  the  front.  She  was  paler  than  usual  ;  on  her 
cheek  two  patches  of  pink  could  just  be  seen. 
She  was  half  facing  the  prince  ;  leaning  on  her 
straight  right  arm  (in  the  left  hand  she  was 
holding  a  sunshade),  with  her  little  head  droop- 
ing languidly,  she  was  looking  straight  into  his 
face  with  her  expressive  eyes.  At  that  instant 
she  surrendered  herself  utterly  to  him,  intrusted 
herself  to  him  for  ever.  I  had  not  time  to  get 
a  good  look  at  his  face — the  carriage  galloped 
by  too  quickly, — but  I  fancied  that  he  too  was 
deeply  touched. 

The  third  time  I  saw  her  in  church.  Not 
more  than  ten  days  had  passed  since  the  day 
when  I  met  her  in  the  carriage  with  the  prince, 
not  more  than  three  weeks  since  the  day  of  my 
duel.     The  business  upon  which  the  prince  had 

come  to  O was  by  now  completed.      But 

he  still  kept  putting  off  his  departure.  At 
Petersburg,  he  was  reported  to  be  ill.  In  the 
town,  it  was  expected  every  day  that  he  would 
make  a  proposal  in  form  to  Kirilla  Matveitch. 
I   was  myself  only  awaiting  this  final  blow  to 

go  away  for  ever.      The  town   of  O had 

grown  hateful  to  me.  I  could  not  stay  indoors, 
and  wandered  from  morning  to  night  about  the 

n 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

suburbs.  One  grey,  gloomy  day,  as  I  was 
coming  back  from  a  walk,  which  had  been  cut 
short  by  the  rain,  I  went  into  a  church.  The 
evening  service  had  only  just  begun,  there  were 
very  few  people ;  I  looked  round  me,  and 
suddenly,  near  a  window,  caught  sight  of  a 
familiar  profile.  For  the  first  instant,  I  did  not 
recognise  it :  that  pale  face,  that  spiritless  glance, 
those  sunken  cheeks — could  it  be  the  same  Liza 
I  had  seen  a  fortnight  before  ?  Wrapped  in 
a  cloak,  without  a  hat  on,  with  the  cold  light 
from  the  broad  white  window  falling  on  her 
from  one  side,  she  was  gazing  fixedly  at  the 
holy  image,  and  seemed  striving  to  pray, 
striving  to  awake  from  a  sort  of  listless  stupor. 
A  red-cheeked,  fat  little  page  with  yellow 
trimmings  on  his  chest  was  standing  behind 
her,  and,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back,  stared  in  sleepy  bewilderment  at  his 
mistress.  I  trembled  all  over,  was  about  to  go 
up  to  her,  but  stopped  short.  I  felt  choked  by 
a  torturing  presentiment.  Till  the  very  end  of 
the  evening  service,  Liza  did  not  stir.  All  the 
people  went  out,  a  beadle  began  sweeping  out 
the  church,  but  still  she  did  not  move  from 
her  place.  The  page  went  up  to  her,  said 
something  to  her,  touched  her  dress ;  she 
looked  round,  passed  her  hand  over  her  face, 
and   went    away.       I    followed   her    home    at 

78 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

a  little  distance,  and  then  returned  to  my 
lodging. 

'  She  is  lost ! '  I  cried,  when  I  had  got  into 
my  room. 

As  a  man,  I  don't  know  to  this  day  what 
my  sensations  were  at  that  moment.  I  flung 
myself,  I  remember,  with  clasped  hands,  on  the 
sofa  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  floor.  But  I 
don't  know — in  the  midst  of  my  woe  I  was, 
as  it  were,  pleased  at  something.  ...  I  would 
not  admit  this  for  anything  in  the  world,  if 
I  were  not  writing  only  for  myself.  ...  I  had 
been  tormented,  certainly,  by  terrible,  harassing 
suspicions  .  .  .  and  who  knows,  I  should,  per- 
haps, have  been  greatly  disconcerted  if  they 
had  not  been  fulfilled.  '  Such  is  the  heart  of 
man  ! '  some  middle-aged  Russian  teacher  would 
exclaim  at  this  point  in  an  expressive  voice, 
while  he  raises  a  fat  forefinger,  adorned  with 
a  cornelian  ring.  But  what  have  we  to  do  with 
the  opinion  of  a  Russian  teacher,  with  an  ex- 
pressive voice  and  a  cornelian  on  his  finger  ? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  my  presentiment  turned 
out  to  be  well  founded.  Suddenly  the  news 
was  all  over  the  town  that  the  prince  had  gone 
away,  presumably  in  consequence  of  a  summons 
from  Petersburg  ;  that  he  had  gone  away  with- 
out making  any  proposal  to  Kirilla  Matveitch 
or  his  wife,  and  that  Liza  would  have  to  deplore 

79 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

his  treachery  till  the  end  of  her  days.  The 
prince's  departure  was  utterly  unexpected,  for 
only  the  evening  before  his  coachman,  so  my 
man  assured  me,  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  his  master's  intentions.  This  piece  of  news 
threw  me  into  a  perfect  fever.  I  at  once  dressed, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  hastening  to  the 
Ozhogins',  but  on  thinking  the  matter  over 
I  considered  it  more  seemly  to  wait  till  the 
next  day,  I  lost  nothing,  however,  by  remain- 
ing at  home.  The  same  evening,  there  came 
to  see  me  in  all  haste  a  certain  Pandopipopulo, 
a  wandering  Greek,  stranded  by  some  chance 

in  the  town  of  O ,  a  scandalmonger  of  the 

first  magnitude,  who  had  been  more  indignant 
with  me  than  any  one  for  my  duel  with  the 
prince.  He  did  not  even  give  my  man  time 
to  announce  him  ;  he  fairly  burst  into  my  room, 
warmly  pressed  my  hand,  begged  my  pardon 
a  thousand  times,  called  me  a  paragon  of  mag- 
nanimity and  courage,  painted  the  prince  in  the 
darkest  colours,  censured  the  old  Ozhogins,  who, 
in  his  opinion,  had  been  punished  as  they  de- 
served, made  a  slighting  reference  to  Liza  in 
passing,  and  hurried  off  again,  kissing  me  on 
my  shoulder.  Among  other  things,  I  learned 
from  him  that  the  prince,  en  vrai  grand  seigneur^ 
on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  in  response  to 
a   delicate   hint   from    Kirilla  Matveitch,   had 

80 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

answered  coldly  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
deceiving  any  one,  and  no  idea  of  marrying,  had 
risen,  made  his  bow,  and  that  was  all.  .  .  . 

Next  day  I  set  off  to  the  Ozhogins'.  The 
shortsighted  footman  leaped  up  from  his  bench 
on  my  appearance,  with  the  rapidity  of  light- 
ning. I  bade  him  announce  me  ;  the  footman 
hurried  away  and  returned  at  once.  *  Walk 
in,'  he  said  ;  '  you  are  begged  to  go  in.'  I  went 
into  Kirilla  Matveitch's  study.  .  .  .  The  rest 
to-morrow. 


gri 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


March  30.     Frost. 

And  so  I  went  into  Kirilla  Matveitch's  study. 
I  would  pay  any  one  handsomely,  who  could 
show  me  now  my  own  face  at  the  moment 
when  that  highly  respected  official,  hurriedly 
flinging  together  his  dressing-gown,  approached 
me  with  outstretched  arms.  I  must  have  been 
a  perfect  picture  of  modest  triumph,  indulgent 
sympathy,  and  boundless  magnanimity.  ...  I 
felt  myself  something  in  the  style  of  Scipio 
Africanus.  Ozhogin  was  visibly  confused  and 
cast  down,  he  avoided  my  eyes,  and  kept  fidget- 
ing about  I  noticed,  too,  that  he  spoke  un- 
naturally loudly,  and  in  general  expressed 
himself  very  vaguely.  Vaguely,  but  with 
warmth,  he  begged  my  forgiveness,  vaguely 
alluded  to  their  departed  guest,  added  a  few 
vague  generalities  about  deception  and  the 
instability  of  earthly  blessings,  and,  suddenly 
feeling  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  hastened  to  take 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  probably  in  order  to  deceive 
me  as  to  the  cause  of  his  tearfulness.  .  .  .  He 
used  the  Russian  green  snuff,  and  it's  well 
known  that  that  article  forces  even  old  men 
to  shed  tears  that  make  the  human  eye 
look  dull  and  senseless  for  several  minutes. 

I   behaved,  of  course,  very  cautiously  with 

82 


THE  DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

the  old  man,  inquired  after  the  health  of  his 
wife  and  daughter,  and  at  once  artfully  turned 
the  conversation  on  to  the  interesting  subject  of 
the  rotation  of  crops.  I  was  dressed  as  usual, 
but  the  feeling  of  gentle  propriety  and  soft 
indulgence  which  filled  me  gave  me  a  fresh 
and  festive  sensation,  as  though  I  had  on  a 
white  waistcoat  and  a  white  cravat.  One  thing 
agitated  me,  the  thought  of  seeing  Liza.  .  .  . 
Ozhogin,  at  last,  proposed  of  his  own  accord 
to  take  me  up  to  his  wife.  The  kind-hearted 
but  foolish  woman  was  at  first  terribly  em- 
barrassed on  seeing  me ;  but  her  brain  was 
not  capable  of  retaining  the  same  impression 
for  long,  and  so  she  was  soon  at  her  ease. 
At  last  I  saw  Liza  .  .  .  she  came  into  the 
room.  .  .  . 

I  had  expected  to  find  in  her  a  shamed 
and  penitent  sinner,  and  had  assumed  before- 
hand the  most  affectionate  and  reassuring 
expression  of  face.  .  .  .  Why  lie  about  it  ?  I 
really  loved  her  and  was  thirsting  for  the 
happiness  of  forgiving  her,  of  holding  out  a 
hand  to  her ;  but  to  my  unutterable  astonish- 
ment, in  response  to  my  significant  bow,  she 
laughed  coldly,  observed  carelessly,  '  Oh,  is 
that  you  ? '  and  at  once  turned  away  from  me. 
It  is  true  that  her  laugh  struck  me  as  forced, 
and  in  any  case  did  not  accord  well  with  her 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

terribly  thin  face  .  .  .  but,  all  the  same,  I  had 
not  expected  such  a  reception.  ...  I  looked 
at  her  with  amazement  .  .  .  what  a  change  had 
taken  place  in  her!  Between  the  child  she 
had  been  and  the  woman  before  me,  there  was 
nothing  in  common.  She  had,  as  it  were, 
grown  up,  straightened  out  ;  all  the  features  of 
her  face,  especially  her  lips,  seemed  defined 
.  .  .  her  gaze  had  grown  deeper,  harder,  and 
gloomier.  I  stayed  on  at  the  Ozhogins'  till 
dinner-time.  She  got  up,  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  came  back  again,  answered  questions 
with  composure,  and  designedly  took  no  notice 
of  me.  She  wanted,  I  saw,  to  make  me  feel 
that  I  was  not  worth  her  anger,  though  I  had 
been  within  an  ace  of  killing  her  lover.  I 
lost  patience  at  last ;  a  malicious  allusion  broke 
from  my  lips.  .  .  .  She  started,  glanced  swiftly 
at  me,  got  up,  and  going  to  the  window,  pro- 
nounced in  a  rather  shaky  voice,  'You  can 
say  anything  you  like,  but  let  me  tell  you 
that  I  love  that  man,  and  always  shall  love 
him,  and  do  not  consider  that  he  has  done  me 
any  injury,  quite  the  contrary.'  .  .  .  Her  voice 
broke,  she  stopped  .  .  .  tried  to  control  herself, 
but  could  not,  burst  into  tears,  and  went  out 
of  the  room.  .  .  .  The  old  people  were  much 
upset.  ...  I  pressed  the  hands  of  both,  sighed, 
turned  my  eyes  heavenward,  and  withdrew. 

84 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

I  am  too  weak,  I  have  too  little  time  left, 
I  am  not  capable  of  describing  in  the  same 
detail  the  new  range  of  torturing  reflections, 
firm  resolutions,  and  all  the  other  fruits  of  what 
is  called  inward  conflict,  that  arose  within  me 
after  the  renewal  of  my  acquaintance  with  the 
Ozhogins.  I  did  not  doubt  that  Liza  still 
loved,  and  would  long  love,  the  prince  .  .  .  but 
as  one  reconciled  to  the  inevitable,  and  anxious 
myself  to  conciliate,  I  did  not  even  dream  of 
her  love.  I  desired  only  her  affection,  I  desired 
to  gain  her  confidence,  her  respect,  which,  we 
are  assured  by  persons  of  experience,  forms 
the  surest  basis  for  happiness  in  marriage.  .  .  . 
Unluckily,  I  lost  sight  of  one  rather  important 
circumstance,  which  was  that  Liza  had  hated 
me  ever  since  the  day  of  the  duel.  I  found 
this  out  too  late.  I  began,  as  before,  to  be  a 
frequent  visitor  at  the  house  of  the  Ozhogins. 
Kirilla  Matveitch  received  me  with  more 
effusiveness  and  affability  than  he  had  ever 
done.  I  have  even  ground  for  believing  that 
he  would  at  that  time  have  cheerfully  given 
me  his  daughter,  though  I  was  certainly  not 
a  match  to  be  coveted.  Public  opinion  was 
very  severe  upon  him  and  Liza,  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  extolled  me  to  the  skies.  Liza's 
attitude  to  me  was  unchanged.  She  was,  for  the 
most  part,  silent ;  obeyed,  when  they  begged  her 

85 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

to  eat,  showed  no  outward  signs  of  sorrow,  but, 
for  all  that,  was  wasting  away  like  a  candle. 
I  must  do  Kirilla  Matveitch  the  justice  to  say 
that  he  spared  her  in  every  way.  Old  Madame 
Ozhogin  only  ruffled  up  her  feathers  like  a  hen, 
as  she  looked  at  her  poor  nestling.  There  was 
only  one  person  Liza  did  not  shun,  though  she 
did  not  talk  much  even  to  him,  and  that  was 
Bizmyonkov.  The  old  people  were  rather  short, 
not  to  say  rude,  in  their  behaviour  to  him.  They 
could  not  forgive  him  for  having  been  second 
in  the  duel.  But  he  went  on  going  to  see  them, 
as  though  he  did  not  notice  their  unamiability. 
With  me  he  was  very  chilly,  and — strange  to 
say — I  felt,  as  it  were,  afraid  of  him.  This  state 
of  things  went  on  for  a  fortnight.  At  last,  after 
a  sleepless  night,  I  resolved  to  have  it  out  with 
Liza,  to  open  my  heart  to  her,  to  tell  her  that, 
in  spite  of  the  past,  in  spite  of  all  possible 
gossip  and  scandal,  I  should  consider  myself 
only  too  happy  if  she  would  give  me  her  hand, 
and  restore  me  her  confidence.  I  really  did 
seriously  imagine  that  I  was  showing  what 
they  call  in  the  school  reading-books  an  un- 
paralleled example  of  magnanimity,  and  that, 
from  sheer  amazement  alone,  she  would  consent. 
In  any  case,  I  resolved  to  have  an  explanation 
and  to  escape,  at  last,  from  suspense. 

Behind   the   Ozhogins'  house    was    a   rather 

86 


THE   DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

large  garden,  which  ended  in  a  little  grove  of 
lime-trees,  neglected  and  overgrown.  In  the 
middle  of  this  thicket  stood  an  old  summer- 
house  in  the  Chinese  style  :  a  wooden  paling 
separated  the  garden  from  a  blind  alley.  Liza 
would  sometimes  walk,  for  hours  together,  alone 
in  this  garden.  Kirilla  Matveitch  was  aware 
of  this,  and  forbade  her  being  disturbed  or 
followed ;  let  her  grief  wear  itself  out,  he  said. 
When  she  could  not  be  found  indoors,  they  had 
only  to  ring  a  bell  on  the  steps  at  dinner-time 
and  she  made  her  appearance  at  once,  with  the 
same  stubborn  silence  on  her  lips  and  in  her 
eyes,  and  some  little  leaf  crushed  up  in  her 
hand.  So,  noticing  one  day  that  she  was  not 
in  the  house,  I  made  a  show  of  going  away, 
took  leave  of  Kirilla  Matveitch,  put  on  my  hat, 
and  went  out  from  the  hall  into  the  courtyard, 
and  from  the  courtyard  into  the  street,  but 
promptly  darted  in  at  the  gate  again  with 
extraordinary  rapidity  and  hurried  past  the 
kitchen  into  the  garden.  Luckily  no  one 
noticed  me.  Without  losing  time  in  delibera- 
tion, I  went  with  rapid  steps  into  the  grove. 
In  a  little  path  before  me  was  standing  Liza. 
My  heart  beat  violently.  I  stood  still,  drew 
a  deep  sigh,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of  going 
up  to  her,  when  suddenly  she  lifted  her  hand 
without  turning  round,  and  began  listening.  .  .  . 

87 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

From  behind  the  trees,  in  the  direction  of  the 
bHnd  alley,  came  a  distinct  sound  of  two 
knocks,  as  though  some  one  were  tapping  at 
the  paling.  Liza  clapped  her  hands  together, 
there  was  heard  the  faint  creak  of  the  gate, 
and  out  of  the  thicket  stepped  Bizmyonkov. 
I  hastily  hid  behind  a  tree.  Liza  turned 
towards  him  without  speaking.  .  .  .  Without 
speaking,  he  drew  her  arm  in  his,  and  the  two 
walked  slowly  along  the  path  together.  I 
looked  after  them  in  amazement.  They  stopped, 
looked  round,  disappeared  behind  the  bushes, 
reappeared  again,  and  finally  went  into  the 
summer-house.  This  summer-house  was  a 
diminutive  round  edifice,  with  a  door  and  one 
little  window.  In  the  middle  stood  an  old  one- 
legged  table,  overgrown  with  fine  green  moss  ; 
two  discoloured  deal  benches  stood  along  the 
sides,  some  distance  from  the  damp  and 
darkened  walls.  Here,  on  exceptionally  hot 
days,  in  bygone  times,  perhaps  once  a  year 
or  so,  they  had  drunk  tea.  The  door  did  not 
quite  shut,  the  window-frame  had  long  ago 
come  out  of  the  window,  and  hung  discon- 
solately, only  attached  at  one  corner,  like  a 
bird's  broken  wing.  I  stole  up  to  the  summer- 
house,  and  peeped  cautiously  through  the  chink 
in  the  window.  Liza  was  sitting  on  one  of  the 
benches,  with  her  head   drooping.     Her  right 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

hand  lay  on  her  knees,  the  left  Bizmyonkov 
was  holding  in  both  his  hands.  He  was  looking 
sympathetically  at  her. 

'  How  do  you  feel  to-day?'  he  asked  her  in 
a  low  voice. 

'  Just  the  same,'  she  answered, '  not  better,  nor 
worse. — The  emptiness,  the  fearful  emptiness  ! ' 
she  added,  raising  her  eyes  dejectedly. 

Bizmyonkov  made  her  no  answer. 

'  What  do  you  think,'  she  went  on  :  '  will  he 
write  to  me  once  more  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  think  so,  Lizaveta  Kirillovna  ! ' 

She  was  silent. 

'  And  after  all,  why  should  he  write  ?  He  told 
me  everything  in  his  first  letter.  I  could  not  be 
his  wife  ;  but  I  have  been  happy  .  .  .  not  for 
long  ...  I  have  been  happy  .  .  .' 

Bizmyonkov  looked  down. 

'  Ah,'  she  went  on  quickly,  '  if  you  knew  how 
I  loathe  that  Tchulkaturin  ...  I  always  fancy 
I  see  on  that  man's  hands  .  .  .  his  blood.'  (I 
shuddered  behind  my  chink.)  *  Though  indeed,' 
she  added,  dreamily,  'who  knows,  perhaps,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  that  duel.  .  .  .  Ah,  when  I 
saw  him  wounded  I  felt  at  once  that  I  was 
altogether  his.' 

'  Tchulkaturin  loves  you/  observed  Biz- 
myonkov. 

'  What  is  that  to  me  ?  I  don't  want  any  one's 

89 


THE   DIARY  OF  A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

love.'  .  .  .  She  stopped  and  added  slowly, 
'  Except  yours.  Yes,  my  friend,  your  love  is 
necessary  to  me  ;  except  for  you,  I  should  be 
lost.  You  have  helped  me  to  bear  terrible 
moments  .  .  .' 

She  broke  off  .  .  .  Bizmyonkov  began  with 
fatherly  tenderness  stroking  her  hand. 

'  There 's  no  help  for  it !  What  is  one  to  do  ! 
what  is  one  to  do,  Lizaveta  Kirillovna ! '  he 
repeated  several  times. 

*  And  now  indeed,'  she  went  on  in  a  lifeless 
voice,  '  I  should  die,  I  think,  if  it  were  not  for 
you.  It 's  you  alone  that  keep  me  up  ;  besides, 
you  remind  me  of  him.  .  .  .  You  knew  all  about 
it,  you  see.  Do  you  remember  how  fine  he  was 
that  day.  .  .  .  But  forgive  me  ;  it  must  be  hard 
for  you.  .  .  .' 

'  Go   on,  go   on  !      Nonsense  !      Bless  you  ! ' 
Bizmyonkov  interrupted  her. 
She  pressed  his  hand. 

*  You  are  very  good,  Bizmyonkov,'  she  went 
on  ;  '  you  are  good  as  an  angel.  What  can  I  do  ! 
I  feel  I  shall  love  him  to  the  grave.  I  have 
forgiven  him,  I  am  grateful  to  him.  God  give 
him  happiness !  May  God  give  him  a  wife 
after  his  own  heart' — and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears — '  if  only  he  does  not  forget  me,  if  only 
he  will  sometimes  think  of  his  Liza ! — Let  us 
go/  she  added,  after  a  brief  silence. 

90 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS    MAN 

Bizmyonkov  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

'  I  know,'  she  began  again  hotly,  '  every  one  is 
blaming  me  now,  every  one  is  throwing  stones 
at  me.  Let  them !  I  wouldn't,  any  way, 
change  my  misery  for  their  happiness  ...  no  ! 
no !  .  .  .  He  did  not  love  me  for  long,  but  he 
loved  me !  He  never  deceived  me,  he  never 
told  me  I  should  be  his  wife  ;  I  never  dreamed 
of  it  myself.  It  was  only  poor  papa  hoped  for 
it.  And  even  now  I  am  not  altogether  un- 
happy ;  the  memory  remains  to  me,  and  how- 
ever fearful  the  results  .  .  .  I  'm  stifling  here 
.  .  .  it  was  here  I  saw  him  the  last  time.  .  .  . 
Let 's  go  into  the  air.' 

They  got  up.  I  had  only  just  time  to  skip 
on  one  side  and  hide  behind  a  thick  lime-tree. 
They  came  out  of  the  summer-house,  and,  as  far 
as  I  could  judge  by  the  sound  of  their  steps, 
went  away  into  the  thicket.  I  don't  know  how 
long  I  went  on  standing  there,  without  stirring 
from  my  place,  plunged  in  a  sort  of  senseless 
amazement,  when  suddenly  I  heard  steps  again. 
I  started,  and  peeped  cautiously  out  from  my 
hiding-place.  Bizmyonkov  and  Liza  were 
coming  back  along  the  same  path.  Both 
were  greatly  agitated,  especially  Bizmyonkov. 
I  fancied  he  was  crying.  Liza  stopped,  looked  at 
him,  and  distinctly  uttered  the  following  words  : 
*  I   do  consent,  Bizmyonkov.      I   would    never 

91 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS    MAN 

have  agreed  if  you  were  only  trying  to  save  me, 
to  rescue  me  from  a  terrible  position,  but  you 
love  me,  you  know  everything — and  you  love 
me.  I  shall  never  find  a  trustier,  truer  friend. 
I  will  be  your  wife.' 

Bizmyonkov  kissed  her  hand :  she  smiled  at 
him  mournfully  and  moved  away  towards  the 
house.  Bizmyonkov  rushed  into  the  thicket, 
and  I  went  my  way.  Seeing  that  Bizmyonkov 
had  apparently  said  to  Liza  precisely  what  I 
had  intended  to  say  to  her,  and  she  had  given 
him  precisely  the  reply  I  was  longing  to  hear 
from  her,  there  was  no  need  for  me  to  trouble 
myself  further.  Within  a  fortnight  she  was 
married  to  him.  The  old  Ozhogins  were 
thankful  to  get  any  husband  for  her. 

Now,  tell  me,  am  I  not  a  superfluous  man  ? 
Didn't  I  play  throughout  the  whole  story  the 
part  of  a  superfluous  person  ?  The  prince's 
part  ...  of  that  it 's  needless  to  speak  ;  Biz- 
myonkov's  part,  too,  is  comprehensible.  .  .  . 
But  I — with  what  object  was  I  mixed  up  in  it? 
...  A  senseless  fifth  wheel  to  the  cart !  .  .  . 
Ah,  it's  bitter,  bitter  for  me  !  .  .  .  But  there, 
as  the  barge-haulers  say,  '  One  more  pull,  and 
^ne  more  yet,' — one  day  more,  and  one  more 
yet,  and  there  will  be  no  more  bitter  nor  sweet 
for  me. 


92 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


March  31. 

I  'm  in  a  bad  way.  I  am  writing  these  lines 
in  bed.  Since  yesterday  evening  there  has 
been  a  sudden  change  in  the  weather.  To-day 
is  hot,  almost  a  summer  day.  Everything  is 
thawing,  breaking  up,  flowing  away.  The  air 
is  full  of  the  smell  of  the  opened  earth,  a 
strong,  heavy,  stifling  smell.  Steam  is  rising 
on  all  sides.  The  sun  seems  beating,  seems 
smiting  everything  to  pieces.  I  am  very  ill,  I 
feel  that  I  am  breaking  up. 

I  meant  to  write  my  diary,  and,  instead  of 
that,  what  have  I  done?  I  have  related  one 
incident  of  my  life.  I  gossiped  on,  slumbering 
reminiscences  were  awakened  and  drew  me 
away.  I  have  written,  without  haste,  in  detail, 
as  though  I  had  years  before  me.  And  here 
now,  there 's  no  time  to  go  on.  Death,  death 
is  coming.  I  can  hear  her  menacing  crescendo. 
The  time  is  come  .  .  .  the  time  is  come !  .  .  . 

And  indeed,  what  does  it  matter?  Isn't  it  all 
the  same  whatever  I  write  ?  In  sight  of  death 
the  last  earthly  cares  vanish.  I  feel  I  have 
grown  calm  ;  I  am  becoming  simpler,  clearer. 
Too  late  I  've  gained  sense  !  ...  It 's  a  strange 
thing !  I  have  grown  calm — certainly,  and  at  the 
same  time  .  .  .  I  'm  full  of  dread.     Yes,  I  'm  full 

93 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

of  dread.     Half  hanging  over  the  silent,  yawning 

abyss,  I  shudder,  turn  away,  with  greedy  intent- 

ness  gaze  at  everything  about  me.     Every  object 

is  doubly  precious  to  me.     I  cannot  gaze  enough 

at  my  poor,  cheerless  room,  saying  farewell  to 

each  spot  on  my  walls.     Take  your  fill  for  the 

last  time,  my  eyes.     Life  is  retreating ;  slowly 

and  smoothly  she  is  flying  away  from  me,  as  the 

shore  flies  from  the  eyes  of  one  at  sea.     The 

old  yellow  face  of  m}^  nurse,  tied  up  in  a  dark 

kerchief,  the  hissing  samovar  on  the  table,  the 

pot  of  geranium  in  the  window,  and  you,  my 

poor  dog,  Tresor,  the   pen  I  write  these   lines 

with,  my  own  hand,  I   see  you  now  .  .  .  here 

you  are,  here.  .  .  .  Is  it  possible  .  .  .  can  it  be, 

to-day  ...  I  shall  never  see  you  again  !     It 's 

hard  for  a  live  creature  to  part  with  life !     Why 

do  you  fawn  on   me,   poor  dog?  why  do  you 

come  putting  your  forepaws  on  the   bed,  with 

your  stump  of  a  tail  wagging  so  violently,  and 

your  kind,  mournful  eyes  fixed  on  me  all  the 

while  ?     Are  you  sorry  for  me  ?  or  do  you  feel 

already  that  your  master  will  soon  be  gone? 

Ah,  if  I   could    only    keep    my  thoughts,  too, 

resting  on  all  the  objects  in  my  room  !     I  know 

these    reminiscences    are    dismal    and    of    no 

importance,    but     I     have     no    other.       'The 

emptiness,   the    fearful    emptiness ! '    as    Liza 

said. 

94 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

0  my  God,  my  God !  Here  I  am  dying. 
.  .  .  A  heart  capable  of  loving  and  ready  to 
love  will  soon  cease  to  beat.  .  .  .  And  can  it  be 
it  will  be  still  for  ever  without  having  once 
known  happiness,  without  having  once  ex- 
panded under  the  sweet  burden  of  bliss  ? 
Alas !  it 's  impossible,  impossible,  I  know.  .  .  . 
If  only  now,  at  least,  before  death — for  death 
after  all  is  a  sacred  thing,  after  all  it  elevates 
any  being — if  any  kind,  sad,  friendly  voice 
would  sing  over  me  a  farewell  song  of  my  own 
sorrow,  I  could,  perhaps,  be  resigned  to  it. 
But  to  die  stupidly,  stupidly.  .  .  . 

1  believe  I  'm  beginning  to  rave. 
Farewell,  life  !  farewell,  my  garden  !  and  you, 

my  lime-trees !  When  the  summer  comes, 
do  not  forget  to  be  clothed  with  flowers  from 
head  to  foot  .  .  .  and  may  it  be  sweet  for  people 
to  lie  in  your  fragrant  shade,  on  the  fresh 
grass,  among  the  whispering  chatter  of  your 
leaves,  lightly  stirred  by  the  wind.  Fare- 
well, farewell !  Farewell,  everything  and  for 
ever! 

Farewell,  Liza !  I  wrote  those  two  words, 
and  almost  laughed  aloud.  This  exclama- 
tion strikes  me  as  taken  out  of  a  book. 
It's  as  though  I  were  writing  a  sentimental 
novel  and  ending  up  a  despairing  letter.  .  .  . 

95 


THE   DIARY  OF   A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

To-morrow  is  the  first  of  April.  Can  I  be 
going  to  die  to-morrow?  That  would  be 
really  too  unseemly.  It's  just  right  for  me, 
though  .  .  . 

How  the  doctor  did  chatter  to-day ! 


96 


THE  DIARY   OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


April  I. 

It  is  over.  .  .  .  Life  is  over.  I  shall  certainly 
die  to-day.  It 's  hot  outside  .  .  .  almost  suffo- 
cating .  .  .  or  is  it  that  my  lungs  are  already 
refusing  to  breathe?  My  little  comedy  is  played 
out.     The  curtain  is  falling.  4^ 

Sinking  into  nothing,  I  cease  to  be  super- 
fluous .  .  . 

Ah,  how  brilliant  that  sun  is  !  Those  mighty 
beams  breathe  of  eternity  .  .  . 

Farewell,  Terentyevna !  .  .  .  This  morning 
as  she  sat  at  the  window  she  was  crying  .  .  . 
perhaps  over  me  .  .  .  and  perhaps  because  she 
too  will  soon  have  to  die.  I  have  made  her 
promise  not  to  kill  Tresor. 

It's  hard  for  me  to  write.  ...  I  will  put 
down  the  pen.  .  .  .  It's  high  time;  death 
is  already  approaching  with  ever-increasing 
rumble,  like  a  carriage  at  night  over  the  pave- 
ment ;  it  is  here,  it  is  flitting  about  me,  like 
the  light  breath  which  made  the  prophet's  hair 
stand  up  on  end. 

I  am  dying.  .  .  .  Live,  you  who  are  living, 

*  And  about  the  grave 
May  youthful  life  rejoice. 
And  nature  heedless 
Glow  with  eternal  beauty. 
G  97 


THE   DIARY  OF   A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

Note  by  the  Editor. — Under  this  last  line  was 
a  head  in  profile  with  a  big  streak  of  hair  and 
moustaches,  with  eyes  en  face,  and  eyelashes 
like  rays;  and  under  the  head  some  one  had 
written  the  following  words  : 

'  This  manuscript  was  read 
And  the  Contents  of  it  Not  Approved 
By  Peter  Zudotyeshin 
My     My     My 
My  dear  Sir, 
Peter  Zudotyeshin, 
Dear  Sir.' 

But  as  the  handwriting  of  these  lines  was  not 
in  the  least  like  the  handwriting  in  which  the 
other  part  of  the  manuscript  was  written,  the 
editor  considers  that  he  is  justified  in  concluding 
that  the  above  lines  were  added  subsequently 
by  another  person,  especially  since  it  has  come 
to  his  (the  editor's)  knowledge  that  Mr. 
Tchulkaturin  actually  did  die  on  the  night 
between  the  ist  and  2nd  of  April  in  the  year 
1 8 — ,  at  his  native  place,  Sheep's  Springs. 

1850. 


98 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 


A 

A  TOUR  IN  THE  FOREST 

FIRST  DAY 

//  The  sight  of  the  vast  pinewood,  embracing  the 
whole  horizon,  the  sight  of  the  '  Forest/  recalls 
the  sight  of  the  ocean.  And  the  sensations  it 
arouses  are  the  same ;  the  same  primaeval  un- 
touched force  lies  outstretched  in  its  breadth 
and  majesty  before  the  eyes  of  the  spectator. 
From  the  heart  of  the  eternal  forest,  from  the 
undying  bosom  of  the  waters,  comes  the  same 
voice  :  '  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  thee,'  — 
nature  says  to  man,  '  I  reign  supreme,  while  do 
thou  bestir  thyself  to  thy  utmost  to  escape 
dying.'  But  the  forest  is  gloomier  and  more 
monotonous  than  the  sea,  especially  the  pine 
forest,  which  is  always  alike  and  almost  sound- 
less. The  ocean  menaces  and  caresses,  it  frolics 
with  every  colour,  speaks  with  every  voice ;  it 
reflects  the  sky,  from  which  too  comes  the 
breath  of  eternity,  but  an  eternity  as  it  were 
not  so  remote  from  us.  .  .  ,  /The  dark,  unchang- 
ing pine-forest  keeps  sullen  silence  or  is  filled 

lOI 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

with  a  dull  roar — and  at  the  sight  of  it  sinks 
into  man's  heart  more  deeply,  more  irresistibly, 
the  sense  of  his  own  nothingness.  It  is  hard 
for  man,  the  creature  of  a  day,  born  yesterday, 
and  doomed  to  death  on  the  morrow,  it  is  hard 
for  him  to  bear  the  cold  gaze  of  the  eternal  Isis, 
fixed  without  sympathy  upon  him  :  not  only 
the  daring  hopes  and  dreams  of  youth  are 
humbled  and  quenched  within  him,  enfolded 
by  the  icy  breath  of  the  elements  ;  no — his 
whole  soul  sinks  down  and  swoons  within  him  ; 
he  feels  that  the  last  of  his  kind  may  vanish  off 
the  face  of  the  earth — and  not  one  needle  will 
quiver  on  those  twigs  ;  he  feels  his  isolation,  his 
feebleness,  his  fortuitousness  ; — and  in  hurried, 
secret  panic,  he  turns  to  the  petty  cares  and 
labours  of  life  ;  he  is  more  at  ease  in  that  world 
he  has  himself  created  ;  there  he  is  at  home, 
there  he  dares  yet  believe  in  his  own  importance 
and  in  his  own  powep  ' 

Such  were  the  ideas  that  came  into  my  mind, 
some  years  ago,  when,  standing  on  the  steps  of 
a  little  inn  on  the  bank  of  the  marshy  little 
river  Ressetta,  I  first  gazed  upon  the  forest. 
The  bluish  masses  of  fir-forest  lay  in  long,  con- 
tinuous ridges  before  me  ;  here  and  there  was 
the  green  patch  of  a  small  birch-copse ;  the 
whole  sky-line  was  hugged  by  the  pine-wood  ; 
nowhere  was  there  the  white  gleam  of  a  church, 

I02 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

nor  bright  stretches  of  meadow  —  it  was  all 
trees  and  trees,  everywhere  the  ragged  edge 
of  the  tree-tops,  and  a  delicate  dim  mist,  the 
eternal  mist  of  the  forest,  hung  over  them  in 
the  distance.  It  was  not  indolent  repose  this 
immobility  of  life  suggested;  no — the  absence 
of  life,  something  dead,  even  in  its  grandeur, 
was  what  came  to  me  from  every  side  of  the 
horizon.  I  remember  big  white  clouds  were 
swimming  by,  slowly  and  very  high  up,  and 
the  hot  summer  day  lay  motionless  upon 
the  silent  earth.  The  reddish  water  of  the 
stream  glided  without  a  splash  among  the 
thick  reeds :  at  its  bottom  could  be  dimly 
discerned  round  cushions  of  pointed  moss,  and 
its  banks  sank  away  in  the  swampy  mud,  and 
sharply  reappeared  again  in  white  hillocks  of 
fine  crumbling  sand.  Close  by  the  little  inn 
ran  the  trodden  highroad. 

On  this  road,  just  opposite  the  steps,  stood 
a  cart,  loaded  with  boxes  and  hampers.  Its 
owner,  a  thin  pedlar  with  a  hawk  nose  and 
mouse-like  eyes,  bent  and  lame,  was  putting  in 
it  his  little  nag,  lame  like  himself.  He  was  a 
gingerbread-seller,  who  was  making  his  way  to 
the  fair  at  Karatchev.  Suddenly  several  people 
appeared  on  the  road,  others  straggled  after 
them  ...  at  last,  quite  a  crowd  came  trudging 
into  sight ;  all  of  them  had  sticks  in  their  hands 

103 


A   TOUR   IN   THE  FOREST 

and  satchels  on  their  shoulders.  From  their 
fatigued  yet  swinging  gait,  and  from  their  sun- 
burnt faces,  one  could  see  they  had  come  from 
a  long  distance.  They  were  leatherworkers  and 
diggers  coming  back  from  working  for  hire. 
An  old  man  of  seventy,  white  all  over,  seemed 
to  be  their  leader.  From  time  to  time  he 
turned  round  and  with  a  quiet  voice  urged  on 
those  who  lagged  behind.  '  Now,  now,  now, 
lads,'  he  said,  '  no — ow.'  They  all  walked  in 
silence,  in  a  sort  of  solemn  hush.  Only  one  of 
them,  a  little  man  with  a  wrathful  air,  in  a 
sheepskin  coat  wide  open,  and  a  lambswool 
cap  pulled  right  over  his  eyes,  on  coming  up 
to  the  gingerbread  man,  suddenly  inquired : 
'  How  much  is  the  gingerbread,  you  tomfool?' 

'  What  sort  of  gingerbread  will  it  be,  worthy 
sir  ?  '  the  disconcerted  gingerbread  -  man  re- 
sponded in  a  thin,  little  voice.  *  Some  are  a 
farthing — and  others  cost  a  halfpenny.  Have 
you  a  halfpenny  in  your  purse  ? ' 

*  But  I  guess  it  will  sweeten  the  belly  too 
much,'  retorted  the  sheepskin,  and  he  retreated 
from  the  cart. 

'  Hurry  up,  lads,  hurry  up,'  I  heard  the  old 
man's  voice :  '  it 's  far  yet  to  our  night's 
rest' 

'  An  uneducated  folk,'  said  the  gingerbread- 
man,  with  a  squint  at  me,  directly  all  the  crowd 

104 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

had  trudged  past :    '  is  such  a  dainty  for  the 
likes  of  them  ?  ' 

And  quickly  harnessing  his  horse,  he  went 
down  to  the  river,  where  a  little  wooden  ferry 
could  be  seen.  A  peasant  in  a  white  felt 
'  schlik  '  (the  usual  headgear  in  the  forest)  came 
out  of  a  low  mud  hut  to  meet  him,  and  ferried 
him  over  to  the  opposite  bank.  The  little  cart, 
with  one  wheel  creaking  from  time  to  time, 
crawled  along  the  trodden  and  deeply  rutted 
road. 

I  fed  my  horses,  and  I  too  was  ferried  over. 
After  struggling  for  a  couple  of  miles  through 
the  boggy  prairie,  I  got  at  last  on  to  a  narrow 
raised  wooden  causeway  to  a  clearing  in  the 
forest.  The  cart  jolted  unevenly  over  the  round 
beams  of  the  causeway:  I  got  out  and  went 
along  on  foot.  The  horses  moved  in  step 
snorting  and  shaking  their  heads  from  the  gnats 
and  flies.  The  forest  took  us  into  its  bosom. 
On  the  outskirts,  nearer  to  the  prairie,  grew 
birches,  aspens,  limes,  maples,  and  oaks.  Then 
they  met  us  more  rarely,  the  dense  firwood 
moved  down  on  us  in  an  unbroken  wall. 
Further  on  were  the  red, bare  trunks  of  pines,  and 
then  again  a  stretch  of  mixed  copse,  overgrown 
with  underwood  of  hazelnut,  mountain  ash, 
and  bramble,  and  stout,  vigorous  weeds.  The 
sun's  rays  threw  a  brilliant  light  on  the  tree-tops, 

105 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

and,  filtering  through  the  branches,  here  and 
there  reached  the  ground  in  pale  streaks  and 
patches.  Birds  I  scarcely  heard — they  do  not 
like  great  forests.  Only  from  time  to  time 
there  came  the  doleful,  thrice-repeated  call  of  a 
hoopoe,  and  the  angry  screech  of  a  nuthatch 
or  a  jay ;  a  silent,  always  solitary  bird  kept 
fluttering  across  the  clearing,  with  a  flash  of 
golden  azure  from  its  lovely  feathers.  At  times 
the  trees  grew  further  apart,  ahead  of  us  the 
light  broke  in,  the  cart  came  out  on  a  cleared, 
sandy,  open  space.  Thin  rye  was  growing  over 
it  in  rows,  noiselessly  nodding  its  pale  ears. 
On  one  side  there  was  a  dark,  dilapidated  little 
chapel,  with  a  slanting  cross  over  a  well.  An 
unseen  brook  was  babbling  peaceably  with 
changing,  ringing  sounds,  as  though  it  were 
flowing  into  an  empty  bottle.  And  then 
suddenly  the  road  was  cut  in  half  by  a  birch-tree 
recently  fallen,  and  the  forest  stood  around,  so 
old,  lofty,  and  slumbering,  that  the  air  seemed 
pent  in.  In  places  the  clearing  lay  under  water. 
On  both  sides  stretched  a  forest  bog,  all  green 
and  dark,  all  covered  with  reeds  and  tiny  alders. 
Ducks  flew  up  in  pairs — and  it  was  strange 
to  see  those  water-birds  darting  rapidly  about 
among  the  pines.  '  Ga,  ga,  ga,  ga,'  their  drawn- 
out  call  kept  rising  unexpectedly.  Then  a 
shepherd  drove  a  flock  through  the  underwood  : 

1 06 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

a  brown  cow  with  short,  pointed  horns  broke 
noisily  through  the  bushes  and  stood  stockstill 
at  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  her  big,  dark  eyes 
fixed  on  the  dog  running  before  me.  A  slight 
breeze  brought  the  delicate,  pungent  smell  of 
burnt  wood.  A  white  smoke  in  the  distance 
crept  in  eddying  rings  over  the  pale,  blue  forest 
air,  showing  that  a  peasant  was  charcoal-burning 
for  a  glass-factory  or  for  a  foundry.  The  further 
we  went  on,  the  darker  and  stiller  it  became  all 
round  us.  In  the  pine-forest  it  is  always  still ; 
there  is  only,  high  overhead,  a  sort  of  prolonged 
murmur  and  subdued  roar  in  the  tree-tops.  .  .  . 
One  goes  on  and  on,  and  this  eternal  murmur  of 
the  forest  never  ceases,  and  the  heart  gradually 
begins  to  sink,  and  a  man  longs  to  come  out 
quickly  into  the  open,  into  the  daylight;  he  longs 
to  draw  a  full  breath  again,  and  is  oppressed  by 
the  fragrant  damp  and  decay.  .  .  . 

For  about  twelve  miles  we  drove  on  at  a 
walking  pace,  rarely  at  a  trot.  I  wanted  to  get 
by  daylight  to  Svyatoe,  a  hamlet  lying  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  forest.  Twice  we  met  peasants 
with  stripped  bark  or  long  logs  on  carts. 

'  Is  it  far  to  Svyatoe  ?  '  I  asked  one  of  them. 

*  No,  not  far.' 

'  How  far  ? ' 

'  It'll  be  a  little  over  two  miles.' 

Another  hour  and  a  half  went  by.     We  were 

107 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

still  driving  on  and  on.  Again  we  heard  the 
creak  of  a  laden  cart.  A  peasant  was  walking 
beside  it. 

'  How  far,  brother,  is  it  still  to  Svyatoe  ? ' 

'What?' 

'  How  far  to  Svyatoe  ? ' 

'  Six  miles.' 

The  sun  was  already  setting  when  at  last 
I  got  out  of  the  forest  and  saw  facing  me  a 
little  village.  About  twenty  homesteads  were 
grouped  close  about  an  old  wooden  church, 
with  a  single  green  cupola,  and  tiny  windows, 
brilliantly  red  in  the  evening  glow.  This  was 
Svyatoe.  I  drove  into  its  outskirts.  A  herd 
returning  homewards  overtook  my  cart,  and  with 
lowing,  grunting  and  bleating  moved  by  us. 
Young  girls  and  bustling  peasant  women  came 
to  meet  their  beasts.  Whiteheaded  boys  with 
merry  shrieks  went  in  chase  of  refractory  pigs. 
The  dust  swirled  along  the  street  in  light  clouds, 
flushed  crimson  as  they  rose  higher  in  the  air. 

I  stopped  at  the  house  of  the  village  elder, 
a  crafty  and  clever  '  forester,'  one  of  those 
foresters  of  whom  they  say  he  can  see  two 
yards  into  the  ground.  Early  next  morning, 
accompanied  by  the  village  elder's  son,  and 
another  peasant  called  Yegor,  I  set  off  in  a 
little  cart  with  a  pair  of  peasant's  horses,  to 
shoot   woodcocks   and    moorhens.     The  forest 

1 08 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

formed  a  continuous  bluish  ring  all  round  the 
sky-line  ;  there  was  reckoned  to  be  two  hundred 
acres,  no  more,  of  ploughed  land  round  Svyatoe; 
but  one  had  to  go  some  five  miles  to  find  good 
places  for  game.  The  elder's  son  was  called 
Kondrat.  He  was  a  flaxen-haired,  rosy-cheeked 
young  fellow,  with  a  good-natured,  peaceable 
expression  of  face,  obliging  and  talkative.  He 
drove  the  horses.  Yegor  sat  by  my  side.  I 
want  to  say  a  few  words  about  him. 

He  was  considered  the  cleverest  sportsman 
in  the  whole  district.  Every  step  of  the  ground 
for  fifty  miles  round  he  had  been  over  again 
and  again.  He  seldom  fired  at  a  bird,  for  lack 
of  powder  and  shot ;  but  it  was  enough  for  him 
to  decoy  a  moorhen  or  to  detect  the  track  of  a 
grouse.  Yegor  had  the  character  of  being  a 
straightforward  fellow  and  '  no  talker.'  He  did 
not  care  for  talking  and  never  exaggerated  the 
number  of  birds  he  had  taken — a  trait  rare  in 
a  sportsman.  He  was  of  medium  height,  thin, 
and  had  a  pale,  long  face,  and  big,  honest  eyes. 
All  his  features,  especially  his  straight  and 
never  -  moving  lips,  were  expressive  of  un- 
troubled serenity.  He  gave  a  slight,  as  it  were 
inward  smile,  whenever  he  uttered  a  word — 
very  sweet  was  that  quiet  smile.  He  never 
drank  spirits,  and  worked  industriously ;  but 
nothing  prospered   with    him.      His   wife   was 

109 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

always  ailing,  his  children  didn't  live ;  he  got 
poorer  and  poorer  and  could  never  pick  up  again. 
And  there  is  no  denying  that  a  passion  for 
the  chase  is  no  good  for  a  peasant,  and  any  one 
who  '  plays  with  a  gun  '  is  sure  to  be  a  poor 
manager  of  his  land.  Either  from  constantly 
being  in  the  forest,  face  to  face  with  the  stern  and 
melancholy  scenery  of  that  inhuman  country, 
or  from  the  peculiar  cast  and  formation  of  his 
character,  there  was  noticeable  in  every  action 
of  Yegor's  a  sort  of  modest  dignity  and  state- 
liness — stateliness  it  was,  and  not  melancholy 
—  the  stateliness  of  a  majestic  stag.  He 
had  in  his  time  killed  seven  bears,  lying  in 
wait  for  them  in  the  oats.  The  last  he  had 
only  succeeded  in  killing  on  the  fourth  night 
of  his  ambush ;  the  bear  persisted  in  not  turn- 
ing sideways  to  him,  and  he  had  only  one 
bullet.  Yegor  had  killed  him  the  day  before  my 
arrival.  When  Kondrat  brought  me  to  him, 
I  found  him  in  his  back  yard  ;  squatting  on  his 
heels  before  the  huge  beast,  he  was  cutting  the 
fat  out  with  a  short,  blunt  knife. 

'  What  a  fine  fellow  you  Ve  knocked  over 
there  ! '  I  observed. 

Yegor  raised  his  head  and  looked  first  at  me, 
then  at  the  dog,  who  had  come  with  me. 

'  If  it 's  shooting  you  've  come  after,  sir,  there 
are  woodcocks  at  Moshnoy — three  coveys,  and 

no 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

five  of  moorhens,'  he  observed,  and  set  to 
work  again. 

With  Yegor  and  with  Kondrat  I  went  out 
the  next  day  in  search  of  sport.  We  drove 
rapidly  over  the  open  ground  surrounding 
Svyatoe,  but  when  we  got  into  the  forest  we 
crawled  along  at  a  walking  pace  once  more. 

*  Look,  there 's  a  wood-pigeon,'  said  Kondrat 
suddenly,  turning  to  me :  '  better  knock  it 
over ! ' 

Yegor  looked  in  the  direction  Kondrat 
pointed,  but  said  nothing.  The  wood-pigeon 
was  over  a  hundred  paces  from  us,  and  one 
can't  kill  it  at  forty  paces  ;  there  is  such 
strength  in  its  feathers.  A  few  more  remarks 
were  made  by  the  conversational  Kondrat ;  but 
the  forest  hush  had  its  influence  even  on  him ;  he 
became  silent.  Only  rarely  exchanging  a  word 
or  two,  looking  straight  ahead,  and  listening  to 
the  puffing  and  snorting  of  the  horses,  we  got 
at  last  to  '  Moshnoy.'  That  is  the  name  given 
to  the  older  pine-forest,  overgrown  in  places  by 
fir  saplings.  We  got  out ;  Kondrat  led  the  cart 
into  the  bushes,  so  that  the  gnats  should  not 
bite  the  horses.  Yegor  examined  the  cock  of 
his  gun  and  crossed  himself:  he  never  began 
anything  without  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  forest  into  which  we  had  come  was 
exceedingly  old.      I   don't  know   whether  the 

III 


A  TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

Tartars  had  wandered  over  it,  but  Russian 
thieves  or  Lithuanians,  in  disturbed  times, 
might  certainly  have  hidden  in  its  recesses. 
At  a  respectful  distance  from  one  another 
stood  the  mighty  pines  with  their  slightly 
curved,  massive,  pale-yellow  trunks.  Between 
them  stood  in  single  file  others,  rather  younger. 
The  ground  was  covered  with  greenish  moss, 
sprinkled  all  over  with  dead  pine-needles;  blue- 
berries grew  in  dense  bushes  ;  the  strong  per- 
fume of  the  berries,  like  the  smell  of  musk, 
oppressed  the  breathing.  The  sun  could  not 
pierce  through  the  high  network  of  the  pine- 
branches  ;  but  it  was  stiflingly  hot  in  the  forest 
all  the  same,  and  not  dark  ;  like  big  drops  of 
sweat  the  heavy,  transparent  resin  stood  out 
and  slowly  trickled  down  the  coarse  bark  of 
the  trees.  The  still  air,  with  no  light  or  shade 
in  it,  stung  the  face.  Everything  was  silent ; 
even  our  footsteps  were  not  audible ;  we 
walked  on  the  moss  as  on  a  carpet.  Yegor  in 
particular  moved  as  silently  as  a  shadow  ; 
even  the  brushwood  did  not  crackle  under  his 
feet.  He  walked  without  haste,  from  time  to 
time  blowing  a  shrill  note  on  a  whistle ;  a 
woodcock  soon  answered  back,  and  before  my 
eyes  darted  into  a  thick  fir-tree.  But  in  vain 
Yegor  pointed  him  out  to  me  ;  however  much 
I  strained  my  eyes,  I  could  not  make  him  out. 

112 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

Yegor  had  to  take  a  shot  at  him.  We  came 
upon  two  coveys  of  moorhens  also.  The 
cautious  birds  rose  at  a  distance  with  an 
abrupt,  heavy  sound.  We  succeeded,  however, 
in  kiUing  three  young  ones. 

At  one  meidan'^  Yegor  suddenly  stopped  and 
called  me  up. 

'  A  bear  has  been  trying  to  get  water,'  he 
observed,  pointing  to  a  broad,  fresh  scratch, 
made  in  the  very  middle  of  a  hole  covered  with 
fine  moss. 

*  Is  that  the  print  of  his  paw?'  I  in- 
quired. 

'  Yes ;  but  the  water  has  dried  up.  That 's 
the  track  of  him  too  on  that  pine ;  he  has  been 
climbing  after  honey.  He  has  cut  into  it  with 
his  claws  as  if  with  a  knife.' 

We  went  on  making  our  way  into  the  inner- 
most depths  of  the  forest.  Yegor  only  rarely 
looked  upwards,  and  walked  on  serenely  and 
confidently.  I  saw  a  high,  round  rampart, 
enclosed  by  a  half-choked-up  ditch. 

'  What 's  that?  a  meidan  too  ?  '  I  inquired. 

'  No,'  answered  Yegor  ;  '  here 's  where  the 
thieves'  town  stood.' 

'  Long  ago  ? ' 

'  Long  ago  ;    our  grandfathers  remember  it. 

^  Meidan  is  the  name  given  to  a  place  where  tar  has  been 
made. — Author's  Note. 

H  113 


A  TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

Here   they  buried    their   treasure.     And   they 
took  a  mighty  oath  :  on  human  blood.' 

We   went   on    another   mile   and  a  half;    I 
began  to  feel  thirsty. 

'  Sit  down  a  little  while,'  said  Yegor :  '  I  will 
go  for  water  ;  there  is  a  well  not  far  from  here.' 

He  went  away  ;  I  was  left  alone. 

I  sat  down  on  a  felled  stump,  leaned  my 
elbows  on  my  knees,  and  after  a  long  stillness, 
raised  my  head  and  looked  around  me.  Oh,  how 
still  and  sullenly  gloomy  was  everything  around 
me — no,  not  gloomy  even,  but  dumb,  cold,  and 
menacing  at  the  same  time !  My  heart  sank. 
At  that  instant,  at  that  spot,  I  had  a  sense  of 
death  breathing  upon  me,  I  felt  I  almost 
touched  its  perpetual  closeness.  If  only  one 
sound  had  vibrated,  one  momentary  rustle  had 
arisen,  in  the  engulfing  stillness  of  the  pine- 
forest  that  hemmed  me  in  on  all  sides !  I  let 
my  head  sink  again,  almost  in  terror  ;  it  was 
as  though  I  had  looked  in,  where  no  man  ought 
to  look.  ...  I  put  my  hand  over  my  eyes — 
and  all  at  once,  as  though  at  some  mysterious 
bidding,  I  began  to  remember  all  my  life.  .  .  . 

There  passed  in  a  flash  before  me  my  child- 
hood, noisy  and  peaceful,  quarrelsome  and 
good-hearted,  with  hurried  joys  and  swift 
sorrows  ;  then  my  youth  rose  up,  vague,  queer, 
self-conscious,  with  all  its  mistakes  and  begin- 

114 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

nings,  with  disconnected  work,  and  agitated 
indolence.  .  .  .  There  came  back,  too,  to  my 
memory  the  comrades  who  shared  those  early 
aspirations  .  .  .  then  like  lightning  in  the  night 
there  came  the  gleam  of  a  few  bright  memories 
.  .  .  then  the  shadows  began  to  grow  and  bear 
down  on  me,  it  was  darker  and  darker  about 
me,  more  dully  and  quietly  the  monotonous 
years  ran  by — and  like  a  stone,  dejection  sank 
upon  my  heart.  I  sat  without  stirring  and 
gazed,  gazed  with  effort  and  perplexity,  as 
though  I  saw  all  my  life  before  me,  as  though 
scales  had  fallen  from  my  eyes.  Oh,  what  have 
I  done !  my  lips  involuntarily  murmured  in  a 
bitter  whisper.  O  life,  life,  where,  how  have 
you  gone  without  a  trace?  How  have  you 
slipped  through  my  clenched  fingers?  Have  you 
deceived  me,  or  was  it  that  I  knew  not  how  to 
make  use  of  your  gifts  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  is  this 
fragment,  this  poor  handful  of  dusty  ashes,  all 
that  is  left  of  you  ?  Is  this  cold,  stagnant,  un- 
necessary something — I,  the  I  of  old  days  ? 
How  ?  The  soul  was  athirst  for  happiness  so 
perfect,  she  rejected  with  such  scorn  all  that  was 
small, all  that  was  insufficient,  she  waited:  soon 
happiness  would  burst  on  her  in  a  torrent — and 
has  not  one  drop  moistened  the  parched  lips  ? 
Oh,  my  golden  strings,  you  that  once  so 
delicately,  so  sweetly  quivered, — I  have  never, 

115 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

it  seems,  heard  your  music  .  .  .  you  had  but 
just  sounded — when  you  broke.  Or,  perhaps, 
happiness,  the  true  happiness  of  all  my  life, 
passed  close  by  me,  smiled  a  resplendent  smile 
upon  me — and  I  failed  to  recognise  its  divine 
countenance.  Or  did  it  really  visit  me,  sit  at 
my  bedside,  and  is  forgotten  by  me,  like  a 
dream  ?  Like  a  dream,  I  repeated  disconso- 
lately. Elusive  images  flitted  over  my  soul, 
awakening  in  it  something  between  pity  and 
bewilderment  :  .  .  you  too,  I  thought,  dear, 
familiar,  lost  faces,  you,  thronging  about  me  in 
this  deadly  solitude,  why  are  you  so  profoundly 
and  mournfully  silent  ?  From  what  abyss  have 
you  arisen  ?  How  am  I  to  interpret  your 
enigmatic  glances?  Are  you  greeting  me, 
or  bidding  me  farewell  ?  Oh,  can  it  be  there 
is  no  hope,  no  turning  back  ?  Why  are  these 
heavy,  belated  drops  trickling  from  my  eyes? 
O  heart,  why,  to  what  end,  grieve  more  ?  try  to 
forget  if  you  would  have  peace,  harden  your- 
self to  the  meek  acceptance  of  the  last  parting, 
to  the  bitter  words  '  good-bye '  and  '  for  ever.' 
Do  not  look  back,  do  not  remember,  do  not 
strive  to  reach  where  it  is  light,  where  youth 
laughs,  where  hope  is  wreathed  with  the  flowers 
of  spring,  where  dovelike  delight  soars  on 
azure  wings,  where  love,  like  dew  in  the  sunrise, 
flashes  with  tears  of  ecstasy ;  look  not  where 

ii6 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

is  bliss,  and  faith  and  power — that  is  not  our 

place ! 

'  Here  is  water  for  you/  I  heard  Yegor's 
musical  voice  behind  me :  '  drink,  with  God's 
blessing.' 

I  could  not  help  starting  ;  this  living  speech 
shook  me,  sent  a  delightful  tremor  all  through 
me.  It  was  as  though  I  had  fallen  into 
unknown,  dark  depths,  where  all  was  hushed 
about  me,  and  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the 
soft,  persistent  moan  of  some  unending  grief 
...  I  was  faint  and  could  not  struggle,  and  all  at 
once  there  floated  down  to  me  a  friendly  voice, 
and  some  mighty  hand  with  one  pull  drew  me 
up  into  the  light  of  day.  I  looked  round,  and 
with  unutterable  consolation  saw  the  serene  and 
honest  face  of  my  guide.  He  stood  easily  and 
gracefully  before  me,  and  with  his  habitual 
smile  held  out  a  wet  flask  full  of  clear  liquid. 
...  I  got  up. 

'  Let 's  go  on  ;  lead  the  way,'  I  said  eagerly. 

We  set  off  and  wandered  a  long  while,  till 
evening.  Directly  the  noonday  heat  was  over, 
it  became  cold  and  dark  so  rapidly  in  the  forest 
that  one  felt  no  desire  to  remain  in  it. 

'  Away,  restless  mortals,'  it  seemed  whisper- 
ing sullenly  from  each  pine.  We  came  out,  but 
it  was  some  time  before  we  could  find  Kondrat, 
We   shouted,  called   to   him,  but   he   did    not 

117 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

answer.  All  of  a  sudden,  in  the  profound  still- 
ness of  the  air,  we  heard  his  '  wo,  wo,'  sound 
distinctly  in  a  ravine  close  to  us.  .  .  .  The  wind, 
which  had  suddenly  sprung  up,  and  as  suddenly 
dropped  again,  had  prevented  him  from  hear- 
ing our  calls.  Only  on  the  trees  which  stood 
some  distance  apart  were  traces  of  its  onslaught 
to  be  seen ;  many  of  the  leaves  were  blown  inside 
out,  and  remained  so,  giving  a  variegated  look  to 
the  motionless  foliage.  We  got  into  the  cart, 
and  drove  home.  I  sat,  swaying  to  and  fro, 
and  slowly  breathing  in  the  damp,  rather  keen 
air ;  and  all  my  recent  reveries  and  regrets  were 
drowned  in  the  one  sensation  of  drowsiness  and 
fatigue,  in  the  one  desire  to  get  back  as  soon  as 
possible  to  the  shelter  of  a  warm  house,  to  have 
a  good  drink  of  tea  with  cream,  to  nestle  into 
the  soft,  yielding  hay,  and  to  sleep,  to  sleep,  to 
sleep.  .  .  . 


ii8 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 


SECOND  DAY 

The  next  morning  the  three  of  us  set  off 
to  the  *  Charred  Wood.'  Ten  years  before, 
several  thousand  acres  in  the  '  Forest '  had  been 
burnt  down,  and  had  not  up  to  that  time  grown 
again  ;  here  and  there,  young  firs  and  pines 
were  shooting  up,  but  for  the  most  part  there 
was  nothing  but  moss  and  ashes.  In  this 
*  Charred  Wood,'  which  is  reckoned  to  be  about 
nine  miles  from  Svyatoe,  there  are  all  sorts  of 
berries  growing  in  great  profusion,  and  it  is  a 
favourite  haunt  of  grouse,  who  are  very  fond  of 
strawberries  and  bilberries. 

We  were  driving  along  in  silence,  when 
suddenly  Kondrat  raised  his  head. 

'  Ah  ! '  he  exclaimed  :  '  why,  that 's  never 
Efrem  standing  yonder !  'Morning  to  you, 
Alexandritch,'  he  added,  raising  his  voice,  and 
lifting  his  cap. 

A  short  peasant  in  a  short,  black  smock,  with 
a  cord  round  the  waist,  came  out  from  behind 
a  tree,  and  approached  the  cart. 

*Why,  have  they  let  you  off?'  inquired 
Kondrat. 

'  I  should  think  so  ! '  replied  the  peasant,  and 
he  grinned.  '  You  don't  catch  them  keeping 
the  likes  of  me.' 

119 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

'  And  what  did  Piotr  Filippitch  say  to 
it?' 

'  Filippov,  is  it  ?     Oh,  he 's  all  right' 

'  You  don't  say  so  !  Why,  I  thought,  Alex- 
andritch — well,  brother,  thought  I,  now  you're 
the  goose  that  must  lie  down  in  the  frying- 
pan  !' 

'  On  account  of  Piotr  Filippov,  hey  ?  Get 
along  !  We  've  seen  plenty  like  him.  He  tries 
to  pass  for  a  wolf,  and  then  slinks  off  like  a 
dog. — Going  shooting  your  honour,  hey  ?  '  the 
peasant  suddenly  inquired,  turning  his  little, 
screwed-up  eyes  rapidly  upon  me,  and  at  once 
dropping  them  again. 

'  Yes.' 

'  And  whereabouts,  now  ?  ' 

*  To  the  Charred  Wood,'  said  Kondrat. 

*  You  're  going  to  the  Charred  Wood  ?  mind 
you  don't  get  into  the  fire.' 

'Eh?' 

'  I  've  seen  a  lot  of  woodcocks,'  the  peasant 
went  on,  seeming  all  the  while  to  be  laughing, 
and  making  Kondrat  no  answer.  '  But  you  '11 
never  get  there ;  as  the  crow  flies  it'll  be  fifteen 
miles.  Why,  even  Yegor  here — not  a  doubt 
but  he 's  as  at  home  in  the  forest  as  in  his  own 
back-yard,  but  even  he  won't  make  his  way 
there.  Hullo,  Yegor,  you  honest  penny  half- 
penny soul  ! '  he  shouted  suddenly. 

1 20 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

'  Good  morning,  Efrem/  Yegor  responded 
deliberately. 

I  looked  with  curiosity  at  this  Efrem.  It 
was  long  since  I  had  seen  such  a  queer  face. 
He  had  a  long,  sharp  nose,  thick  lips,  and  a 
scanty  beard.  His  little  blue  eyes  positively 
danced,  like  little  imps.  He  stood  in  a  free- 
and-easy  pose,  his  arms  akimbo,  and  did  not 
touch  his  cap. 

'  Going  home  for  a  visit,  eh  ?  '  Kondrat  ques- 
tioned him. 

'  Go  on  !  on  a  visit !  It 's  not  the  weather 
for  that,  my  lad;  it's  set  fair.  It's  all  open 
and  free,  my  dear ;  one  may  lie  on  the  stove  till 
winter  time,  not  a  dog  will  stir.  When  I  was 
in  the  town,  the  clerk  said  :  "  Give  us  up," 
says  he,  "  'Lexandritch  ;  you  just  get  out  of 
the  district,  we'll  let  you  have  a  passport, 
first-class  one  .  .  ."  but  there,  I  'd  pity  on  you 
Svyatoe  fellows  :  you  'd  never  get  another 
thief  like  me.' 

Kondrat  laughed. 

'  You  will  have  your  joke,  uncle,  you  will, 
upon  my  word,'  he  said,  and  he  shook  the  reins. 
The  horses  started  off. 

'  Wo,'  said  Efrem.     The  horses  stopped. 

Kondrat  did  not  like  this  prank. 

'  Enough  of  your  nonsense,  Alexandritch,'  he 
observed    in     an    undertone :    '  don't   you    see 

121 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

we  're  out  with  a  gentleman  ?  You  mind  ;  he  '11 
be  angry.' 

'  Get  on  with  you,  sea-drake  !  What  should 
he  be  angry  about  ?  He 's  a  good-natured 
gentleman.  You  see,  he  '11  give  me  something 
to  drink.  Hey,  master,  give  a  poor  scoundrel 
a  dram  !  Won't  I  drink  it ! '  he  added,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulder  up  to  his  ear,  and  grating 
his  teeth. 

I  could  not  help  smiling,  gave  him  a  copper, 
and  told  Kondrat  to  drive  on. 

'  Much  obliged,  your  honour,'  Efrem  shouted 
after  us  in  soldierly  fashion.  '  And  you  '11  know, 
Kondrat,  for  the  future  from  whom  to  learn 
manners.  Faint  heart  never  wins  ;  'tis  boldness 
gains  the  day.  When  you  come  back,  come 
to  my  place,  d'  ye  hear  ?  There  '11  be  drinking 
going  on  three  days  at  home ;  there  '11  be  some 
necks  broken,  I  can  tell  you  ;  my  wife  's  a  devil 
of  a  woman  ;  our  yard 's  on  the  side  of  a  pre- 
cipice. .  .  .  Ay,  magpie,  have  a  good  time  till 
your  tail  gets  pinched.'  And  with  a  sharp 
whistle,  Efrem  plunged  into  the  bushes. 

'  What  sort  of  man  is  he  ? '  I  questioned 
Kondrat,  who,  sitting  in  the  front,  kept  shaking 
his  head,  as  though  deliberating  with  himself 

'  That  fellow?'  replied  Kondrat,  and  he  looked 
down.     '  That  fellow  ?  '  he  repeated. 

*  Yes.     Is  he  of  your  village  ?  ' 

122 


A  TOUR   IN   THE  FOREST 

'  Yes,  he  's  a  Svyatoe  man.  He 's  a  fellow. 
.  .  .  You  wouldn't  find  the  like  of  him,  if  you 
hunted  for  a  hundred  miles  round.  A  thief 
and  cheat — good  Lord,  yes  !  Another  man's 
property  simply,  as  it  were,  takes  his  eye. 
You  may  bury  a  thing  underground,  and  you 
won't  hide  it  from  him  ;  and  as  to  money,  you 
might  sit  on  it,  and  he  'd  get  it  from  under  you 
without  your  noticing  it.' 

'  What  a  bold  fellow  he  is  ! ' 

'Bold  ?  Yes,  he's  not  afraid  of  any  one.  But 
just  look  at  him  ;  he 's  a  beast  by  his  physio- 
gnomy ;  you  can  see  by  his  nose.'  (Kondrat 
often  used  to  drive  with  gentlemen,  and  had 
been  in  the  chief  town  of  the  province,  and  so 
liked  on  occasion  to  show  off  his  attainments.) 
'  There 's  positively  no  doing  anything  with  him. 
How  many  times  they've  taken  him  off  to  put 
him  in  the  prison  ! — it 's  simply  trouble  thrown 
away.  They  start  tying  him  up,  and  he'll 
say,  "  Come,  why  don't  you  fasten  that  leg  ? 
fasten  that  one  too,  and  a  little  tighter  :  I  '11  have 
a  little  sleep  meanwhile ;  and  I  shall  get  home 
before  your  escort."  And  lo  and  behold  !  there 
he  is  back  again,  yes,  back  again,  upon  my 
soul !  Well  as  we  all  about  here  know  the 
forest,  being  used  to  it  from  childhood,  we  're 
no  match  for  him  there.  Last  summer  he 
came  at  night  straight  across  from  Altuhin  to 

12^ 


A  TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

Svyatoe,  and  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to 
walk  it — it  '11  be  over  thirty  miles.  And  he 
steals  honey  too  ;  no  one  can  beat  him  at  that ; 
and  the  bees  don't  sting  him.  There  's  not  a 
hive  he  hasn't  plundered.' 

'  I  expect  he  doesn't  spare  the  wild  bees 
either  ?  ' 

'  Well,  no,  I  won't  lay  a  false  charge  against 
him.  That  sin  's  never  been  observed  in  him. 
The  wild  bees'  nest  is  a  holy  thing  with  us.  A 
hive  is  shut  in  by  fences  ;  there  's  a  watch  kept ; 
if  you  get  the  honey — it 's  your  luck  ;  but  the 
wild  bee  is  a  thing  of  God's,  not  guarded  ;  only 
the  bear  touches  it' 

'  Because  he  is  a  bear,'  remarked  Yegor. 

'  Is  he  married  ?  ' 

'  To  be  sure.  And  he  has  a  son.  And  won't 
he  be  a  thief  too,  the  son  !  He 's  taken  after 
his  father.  And  he  's  training  him  now  too. 
The  other  day  he  took  a  pot  with  some  old 
coppers  in  it,  stolen  somewhere,  I  've  no  doubt, 
went  and  buried  it  in  a  clearing  in  the  forest, 
and  went  home  and  sent  his  son  to  the  clearing. 
"  Till  you  find  the  pot,"  says  he,  "  I  won't  give 
you  anything  to  eat,  or  let  you  into  the  place." 
The  son  stayed  the  whole  day  in  the  forest, 
and  spent  the  night  there,  but  he  found  the  pot. 
Yes,  he 's  a  smart  chap,  that  Efrem.  When  he 's 
at  home,  he 's  a  civil  fellow,  presses  every  one  ; 

124 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

you  may  eat  and  drink  as  you  will,  and  there  '11 
be  dancing  got  up  at  his  place  and  merry-making 
of  all  sorts.  And  when  he  comes  to  the  meeting 
— we  have  a  parish  meeting,  you  know,  in  our 
village — well,  no  one  talks  better  sense  than  he 
does  ;  he  '11  come  up  behind,  listen,  say  a  word 
as  if  he  chopped  it  off,  and  away  again  ;  and  a 
weighty  word  it  '11  be,  too.  But  when  he 's 
about  in  the  forest,  ah  !  that  means  trouble ! 
We've  to  look  out  for  mischief.  Though,  I 
must  say,  he  doesn't  touch  his  own  people  unless 
he  's  in  a  fix.  If  he  meets  a  Svyatoe  man  :  "  Go 
along  with  you,  brother,"  he  '11  shout,  a  long  way 
away  ;  "  the  forest  devil 's  upon  me  :  I  shall  kill 
you  !  " — it 's  a  bad  business  ! ' 

*  What  can  you  all  be  thinking  about  ?  A 
whole  district  can't  get  even  with  one  man  ? ' 

'  Well,  that 's  just  how  it  is,  any  way.' 

*  Is  he  a  sorcerer,  then  ? ' 

*  Who  can  say !  Here,  some  days  ago,  he 
crept  round  at  night  to  the  deacon's  near,  after 
the  honey,  and  the  deacon  was  watching  the 
hive  himself  Well,  he  caught  him,  and  in  the 
dark  he  gave  him  a  good  hiding.  When  he  'd 
done,  Efrem,  he  says  to  him  :  "  But  d'  you  know 
who  it  is  you  've  been  beating  ?  "  The  deacon, 
when  he  knew  him  by  his  voice,  was  fairly  dum- 
foundereti.  "  Well,  my  good  friend,"  says  Efrem, 
"you  won't  get  off  so  easily  for  this."  The  deacon 

125 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

fell  down  at  his  feet.  "Take,"  says  he,  "what  you 
please."  "  No,"  says  he,  "  I  '11  take  it  from  you  at 
my  own  time  and  as  I  choose."  And  what  do 
you  think  ?  Since  that  day  the  deacon 's  as 
though  he'd  been  scalded;  he  wanders  about  like 
a  ghost.  "  It 's  taken,"  says  he,  "  all  the  heart 
out  of  me ;  it  was  a  dreadful,  powerful  saying, 
to  be  sure,  the  brigand  fastened  upon  me." 
That 's  how  it  is  with  him,  with  the  deacon.' 

'  That  deacon  must  be  a  fool,'  I  observed. 

'A  fool?  Well,  but  what  do  you  say  to 
this  ?  There  was  once  an  order  issued  to  seize 
this  fellow,  Efrem.  We  had  a  police  com- 
missary then,  a  sharp  man.  And  so  a  dozen 
chaps  went  off  into  the  forest  to  take  Efrem. 
They  look,  and  there  he  is  coming  to  meet 
them.  .  .  .  One  of  them  shouts,  "  Here  he  is,  hold 
him,  tie  him  ! "  But  Efrem  stepped  into  the 
forest  and  cut  himself  a  branch,  two  fingers' 
thickness,  like  this,  and  then  out  he  skips  into 
the  road  again,  looking  so  frightful,  so  terrible, 
and  gives  the  command  like  a  general  at  a 
review  :  "  On  your  knees  !  "  All  of  them  fairly 
fell  down.  "  But  who,"  says  he,  "  shouted  hold 
him,  tie  him  ?  You,  Seryoga  ?  "  The  fellow 
simply  jumped  up  and  ran  .  .  .  and  Efrem 
after  him,  and  kept  swinging  his  branch  at  his 
heels.  .  .  .  For  nearly  a  mile  he  stroked  him 
down.      And   afterwards    he   never   ceased   to 

126 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

regret :  "  Ah,"  he  'd  say,  "  it  is  annoying  I  didn't 
lay  him  up  for  the  confession."  For  it  was 
just  before  St.  Philip's  day.  Well,  they  changed 
the  police  commissary  soon  after,  but  it  all 
ended  the  same  way.' 

*  Why  did  they  all  give  in  to  him  ? ' 
'Why!  well,  it  is  so.  .  .  .' 

'  He  has  frightened  you  all,  and  now  he  does 
as  he  likes  with  you.' 

*  Frightened,  yes.  .  .  .  He  'd  frighten  any 
one.  And  he's  a  wonderful  hand  at  con- 
trivances, my  goodness,  yes  !  I  once  came 
upon  him  in  the  forest ;  there  was  a  heavy  rain 
falling ;  I  was  for  edging  away.  .  .  .  But  he 
looked  at  me,  and  beckoned  to  me  with  his 
hand  like  this.  "  Come  along,"  says  he,  "  Kon- 
drat,  don't  be  afraid.  Let  me  show  you  how  to 
live  in  the  forest,  and  to  keep  dry  in  the  rain." 
I  went  up  to  him,  and  he  was  sitting  under  a 
fir-tree,  and  he  'd  made  a  fire  of  damp  twigs : 
the  smoke  hung  about  in  the  fir-tree,  and  kept 
the  rain  from  dripping  through.  I  was  aston- 
ished at  him  then.  And  I  '11  tell  you  what  he 
contrived  one  time '  (and  Kondrat  laughed) ;  '  he 
really  did  do  a  funny  thing.  They'd  been 
thrashing  the  oats  at  the  thrashing-floor,  and 
they  hadn't  finished  ;  they  hadn't  time  to  rake 
up  the  last  heap ;  well,  they  'd  set  two  watch- 
men by  it  for  the  night,  and  they  weren't  the 

127 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

boldest-hearted  of  the  chaps  either.  Well,  they 
were  sitting  and  gossiping,  and  Efrem  takes 
and  stuffs  his  shirt-sleeves  full  of  straw,  ties  up 
the  wrist-bands,  and  puts  the  shirt  up  over  his 
head.  And  so  he  steals  up  in  that  shape  to  the 
thrashing-floor,  and  just  pops  out  from  behind 
the  corner  and  gives  them  a  peep  of  his  horns. 
One  chap  says  to  the  other :  "  Do  you  see  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  says  the  other,  and  didn't  he  give  a 
screech  all  of  a  sudden  .  .  .  and  then  the  fences 
creaked  and  nothing  more  was  seen  of  them. 
Efrem  shovelled  up  the  oats  into  a  bag  and 
dragged  it  off  home.  He  told  the  story  himself 
afterwards.  He  put  them  to  shame,  he  did,  the 
chaps.  .  .  .     He  did  really  ! ' 

Kondrat  laughed  again.  And  Yegor  smiled. 
'  So  the  fences  creaked  and  that  was  all  ? '  he 
commented.  '  There  was  nothing  more  seen  of 
them,'  Kondrat  assented.  '  They  were  simply 
gone  in  a  flash.' 

We  were  all  silent  again.  Suddenly  Kondrat 
started  and  sat  up. 

'  Eh,  mercy  upon  us  ! '  he  ejaculated  ;  *  surely 
it 's  never  a  fire  ! ' 

'  Where,  where  ? '  we  asked. 

'  Yonder,  see,  in  front,  where  we  're  going.  .  .  . 
A  fire  it  is  !  Efrem  there,  Efrem — why,  he 
foretold  it!  If  it's  not  his  doing,  the  damned 
fellow!  .  .  .' 

128 


A   TOUR  IN   THE   FOREST 

I  glanced  in  the  direction  Kondrat  was  point- 
ing. Two  or  three  miles  ahead  of  us,  behind  a 
green  strip  of  low  fir  saplings,  there  really  was 
a  thick  column  of  dark  blue  smoke  slowly  rising 
from  the  ground,  gradually  twisting  and  coiling 
into  a  cap-shaped  cloud  ;  to  the  right  and  left 
of  it  could  be  seen  others,  smaller  and  whiter. 

A  peasant,  all  red  and  perspiring,  in  nothing 
but  his  shirt,  with  his  hair  hanging  dishevelled 
about  his  scared  face,  galloped  straight 
towards  us,  and  with  difficulty  stopped  his 
hastily  bridled  horse. 

'  Mates,'  he  inquired  breathlessly,  '  haven't 
you  seen  the  foresters  ? ' 

'  No,  we  haven't.  What  is  it  ?  is  the  forest  on 
fire?' 

'  Yes.  We  must  get  the  people  together,  or 
else  if  it  gets  to  Trosnoe  .  .  .' 

The  peasant  tugged  with  his  elbows,  pounded 
with  his  heels  on  the  horse's  sides.  ...  It 
galloped  off. 

Kondrat,  too,  whipped  up  his  pair.  We  drove 
straight  towards  the  smoke,  which  was  spread- 
ing more  and  more  widely ;  in  places  it  suddenly 
grew  black  and  rose  up  high.  The  nearer  we 
moved  to  it,  the  more  indefinite  became  its 
outlines ;  soon  all  the  air  was  clouded  over, 
there  was  a  strong  smell  of  burning,  and  here 
and  there  between  the  trees,  with  a  strange, 
I  129 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

weird  quivering  in  the  sunshine,  gleamed  the 
first  pale  red  tongues  of  flame. 

'  Well,  thank  God,'  observed  Kondrat,  '  it 
seems  it 's  an  overground  fire.' 

'What's  that.?' 

'  Overground  ?  One  that  runs  along  over  the 
earth.  With  an  underground  fire,  now,  it 's  a 
difficult  job  to  deal.  What 's  one  to  do,  when 
the  earth's  on  fire  for  a  whole  yard's  depth? 
There's  only  one  means  of  safety  —  digging 
ditches, —  and  do  you  suppose  that 's  easy  ? 
But  an  overground  fire's  nothing.  It  only 
scorches  the  grasses  and  burns  the  dry  leaves  ! 
The  forest  will  be  all  the  better  for  it.  Ouf, 
though,  mercy  on  us,  look  how  it  flares ! ' 

We  drove  almost  up  to  the  edge  of  the  fire. 
I  got  down  and  went  to  meet  it.  It  was  neither 
dangerous  nor  difficult.  The  fire  was  running 
over  the  scanty  pine-forest  against  the  wind  ; 
it  moved  in  an  uneven  line,  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  in  a  dense  jagged  wall  of  curved 
tongues.  The  smoke  was  carried  away  by  the 
wind.  Kondrat  had  told  the  truth ;  it  really 
was  an  overground  fire,  which  only  scorched  the 
grass  and  passed  on  without  finishing  its  work, 
leaving  behind  it  a  black  and  smoking,  but  not 
even  smouldering,  track.  At  times,  it  is  true, 
when  the  fire  came  upon  a  hole  filled  with  dry 
wood  and  twigs,  it  suddenly  and  with  a  kind  of 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

peculiar,  rather  vindictive  roar,  rose  up  in  long, 
quivering  points  ;  but  it  soon  sank  down  again 
and  ran  on  as  before,  with  a  slight  hiss  and 
crackle.  I  even  noticed,  more  than  once,  an 
oak-bush,  with  dry  hanging  leaves,  hemmed  in 
all  round  and  yet  untouched,  except  for  a  slight 
singeing  at  its  base.  I  must  own  I  could  not 
understand  why  the  dry  leaves  were  not  burned. 
Kondrat  explained  to  me  that  it  was  owing  to 
the  fact  that  the  fire  was  overground,  '  that 's  to 
say,  not  angry.'  '  But  it 's  fire  all  the  same,'  I 
protested.  '  Overground  fire,'  repeated  Kon- 
drat. However,  overground  as  it  was,  the  fire, 
none  the  less,  produced  its  effect :  hares  raced 
up  and  down  with  a  sort  of  disorder,  running 
back  with  no  sort  of  necessity  into  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  fire  ;  birds  fell  down  in  the 
smoke  and  whirled  round  and  round  ;  horses 
looked  back  and  neighed,  the  forest  itself  fairly 
hummed  —  and  man  felt  discomfort  from  the 
heat  suddenly  beating  into  his  face.  .  .  . 

'  What  are  we  looking  at  ? '  said  Yegor 
suddenly,  behind  my  back.     '  Let 's  go  on.' 

•  But  where  are  we  to  go  ? '  asked  Kondrat. 

'  Take  the  left,  over  the  dry  bog ;  we  shall 
get  through.' 

We  turned  to  the  left,  and  got  through,  though 
it  was  sometimes  difficult  for  both  the  horses 
and  the  cart. 

131 


A   TOUR   IN    THE   FOREST 

The  whole  day.  we  wandered  over  the  Charred 
Wood.  At  evening — the  sunset  had  not  yet 
begun  to  redden  in  the  sky,  but  the  shadows 
from  the  trees  already  lay  long  and  motionless, 
and  in  the  grass  one  could  feel  that  chill  that 
comes  before  the  dew — I  lay  down  by  the  road- 
side near  the  cart  in  which  Kondrat,  without 
haste,  was  harnessing  the  horses  after  their  feed, 
and  I  recalled  my  cheerless  reveries  of  the  day 
before.  Everything  around  was  as  still  as  the 
previous  evening,  but  there  was  not  the  forest, 
stifling  and  weighing  down  the  spirit.  On  the 
dry  moss,  on  the  crimson  grasses,  on  the  soft 
dust  of  the  road,  on  the  slender  stems  and  pure 
little  leaves  of  the  young  birch-trees,  lay  the 
clear  soft  light  of  the  no  longer  scorching,  sink- 
ing sun.  Everything  was  resting,  plunged  in 
soothing  coolness  ;  nothing  was  yet  asleep,  but 
everything  was  getting  ready  for  the  restoring 
slumber  of  evening  and  night-time.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  be  saying  to  man  :  '  Rest, 
brother  of  ours  ;  breathe  lightly,  and  grieve  not, 
thou  too,  at  the  sleep  close  before  thee.'  I 
raised  my  head  and  saw  at  the  very  end  of  a 
delicate  twig  one  of  those  large  flies  with 
emerald  head,  long  body,  and  four  transparent 
wings,  which  the  fanciful  French  call  *  maidens,' 
while  our  guileless  people  has  named  them 
'bucket-yokes.'     For  a  long  while,  more  than 

132 


A  TOUR  IN   THE   FOREST 

an  hour,  I  did  not  take  my  eyes  off  her. 
Soaked  through  and  through  with  sunshine, 
she  did  not  stir,  only  from  time  to  time  turning 
her  head  from  side  to  side  and  shaking  her 
lifted  wings  .  .  .  that  was  all.  Looking  at 
her,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  me  that  I  under- 
stood the  life  of  nature,  understood  its  clear 
and  unmistakable  though,  to  many,  still 
mysterious  significance.  A  subdued,  quiet 
animation,  an  unhasting,  restrained  use  of  sen- 
sations and  powers,  an  equilibrium  of  health  in 
each  separate  creature — there  is  her  very  basis, 
her  unvarying  law,  that  is  what  she  stands  upon 
and  holds  to.  Everything  that  goes  beyond  this 
level,  above  or  below — it  makes  no  difference — 
she  flings  away  as  worthless.  Many  insects 
die  as  soon  as  they  know  the  joys  of  love,  which 
destroy  the  equilibrium.  The  sick  beast  plunges 
into  the  thicket  and  expires  there  alone :  he 
seems  to  feel  that  he  no  longer  has  the  right  to 
look  upon  the  sun  that  is  common  to  all,  nor 
to  breathe  the  open  air  ;  he  has  not  the  right  to 
live ; — and  the  man  who  from  his  own  fault  or 
from  the  fault  of  others  is  faring  ill  in  the 
world — ought,  at  least,  to  know  how  to  keep 
silence. 

'  Well,  Yegor ! '  cried  Kondrat  all  at  once. 
He  had  already  settled  himself  on  the  box 
of  the  cart  and  was  shaking  and  playing  with 


A   TOUR   IN   THE   FOREST 

the  reins.  '  Come,  sit  down.  What  are  you  so 
thoughtful  about  ?     Still  about  the  cow  ?  ' 

'  About  the  cow  ?  What  cow  ?  '  I  repeated, 
and  looked  at  Yegor :  calm  and  stately  as 
ever,  he  certainly  did  seem  thoughtful,  and 
was  gazing  away  into  the  distance  towards 
the  fields  already  beginning  to  get  dark. 

'  Don't  you  know  ?  '  answered  Kondrat ;  '  his 
last  cow  died  last  night.  He  has  no  luck.— 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  '  .  .  . 

Yegor  sat  down  on  the  box,  without  speak- 
ing, and  we  drove  off  '  That  man  knows  how 
to  bear  in  silence,'  I  thought. 


134 


YAKOV    PASINKOV 


YAKOV    PASINKOV 


It  happened  in  Petersburg,  in  the  winter,  on 
the  first  day  of  the  carnival.  I  had  been 
invited  to  dinner  by  one  of  my  schoolfellows, 
who  enjoyed  in  his  youth  the  reputation 
of  being  as  modest  as  a  maiden,  and  turned 
out  in  the  sequel  a  person  by  no  means  over 
rigid  in  his  conduct.  He  is  dead  now,  like 
most  of  my  schoolfellows.  There  were  to 
be  present  at  the  dinner,  besides  me,  Kon- 
stantin  Alexandrovitch  Asanov,  and  a  literary 
celebrity  of  those  days.  The  literary  celebrity 
kept  us  waiting  for  him,  and  finally  sent  a 
note  that  he  was  not  coming,  and  in  place 
of  him  there  turned  up  a  little  light-haired 
gentleman,  one  of  the  everlasting  uninvited 
guests  with  whom  Petersburg  abounds. 

The  dinner  lasted  a  long  while ;  our  host 
did  not  spare  the  wine,  and  by  degrees  our 
heads  were  affected.  Everything  that  each  of 
us  kept  hidden  in  his  heart — and  who  is  there 

137 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

that  has  not  something  hidden  in  his  heart  ? — 
came  to  the  surface.  Our  host's  face  suddenly 
lost  its  modest  and  reserved  expression ;  his 
eyes  shone  with  a  brazen-faced  impudence,  and 
a  vulgar  grin  curved  his  lips ;  the  light-haired 
gentleman  laughed  in  a  feeble  way,  with  a 
senseless  crow  ;  but  Asanov  surprised  me  more 
than  any  one.  The  man  had  always  been  con- 
spicuous for  his  sense  of  propriety,  but  now  he 
began  by  suddenly  rubbing  his  hand  over  his 
forehead,  giving  himself  airs,  boasting  of  his 
connections,  and  continually  alluding  to  a 
certain  uncle  of  his,  a  very  important  per- 
sonage. ...  I  positively  should  not  have 
known  him  ;  he  was  unmistakably  jeering  at 
us  ...  he  all  but  avowed  his  contempt  for 
our  society.  Asanov's  insolence  began  to  ex- 
asperate me. 

'  Listen,'  I  said  to  him  ;  '  if  we  are  such  poor 
creatures  to  your  thinking,  you  'd  better  go 
and  see  your  illustrious  uncle.  But  possibly 
he 's  not  at  home  to  you.' 

Asanov  made  me  no  reply,  and  went  on 
passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

'  What  a  set  of  people ! '  he  said  again  ; 
'  they  Ve  never  been  in  any  decent  society, 
never  been  acquainted  with  a  single  decent 
woman,  while  I  have  here,'  he  cried,  hurriedly 
pulling  a  pocket-book  out  of  his  side-pocket 

138 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

and  tapping  it  with  his  hand,  '  a  whole  pack  of 
letters  from  a  girl  whom  you  wouldn't  find  the 
equal  of  in  the  whole  world.' 

Our  host  and  the  light-haired  gentleman 
paid  no  attention  to  Asanov's  last  words  ;  they 
were  holding  each  other  by  their  buttons,  and 
both  relating  something ;  but  I  pricked  up  my 
ears. 

'  Oh,  you  're  bragging,  Mr.  nephew  of  an 
illustrious  personage,'  I  said,  going  up  to 
Asanov  ;  '  you  haven't  any  letters  at  all.' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ? '  he  retorted,  and  he 
looked  down  loftily  at  me ;  '  what 's  this,  then  ? ' 
He  opened  the  pocket-book,  and  showed  me 
about  a  dozen  letters  addressed  to  him.  ...  A 
familiar  handwriting,  I  fancied  ...  I  feel  the 
flush  of  shame  mounting  to  my  cheeks  .  .  . 
my  self-love  is  suffering  horribly.  .  .  .  No  one 
likes  to  own  to  a  mean  action.  .  .  .  But  there 
is  nothing  for  it :  when  I  began  my  story,  I 
knew  I  should  have  to  blush  to  my  ears  in  the 
course  of  it.  And  so,  I  am  bound  to  harden 
my  heart  and  confess  that  .  .  . 

Well,  this  was  what  passed :  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  intoxicated  condition  of  Asanov, 
who  had  carelessly  dropped  the  letters  on  the 
champagne-stained  tablecloth  (my  own  head 
was  dizzy  enough  too),  and  hurriedly  ran  my 
eyes  over  one  of  the  letters.  .  .  . 

139 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

My  heart  stood  still.  .  .  .  Alas  !  I  was 
myself  in  love  with  the  girl  who  had  written 
to  Asanov,  and  I  could  have  no  doubt  now 
that  she  loved  him.  The  whole  letter,  which 
was  in  French,  expressed  tenderness  and 
devotion.  .  .  . 

'  Mon  cher  ami  Constantin  ! '  so  it  began  .  .  . 
and  it  ended  with  the  words  :  '  be  careful  as 
before,  and  I  will  be  yours  or  no  one's.' 

Stunned  as  by  a  thunderbolt,  I  sat  for  a  few 
instants  motionless ;  at  last  I  regained  my  self- 
possession,  jumped  up,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
room. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  back  at 
home  in  my  own  lodgings. 

The  family  of  the  Zlotnitskys  was  one  of 
^he  first  whose  acquaintance  I  made  on  com- 
ing to  Petersburg  from  Moscow.  It  consisted 
of  a  father  and  mother,  two  daughters,  and  a 
son.  The  father,  a  man  already  grey,  but  still 
vigorous,  who  had  been  in  the  army,  held  a 
fairly  important  position,  spent  the  morning 
in  a  government  office,  went  to  sleep  after 
dinner,  and  in  the  evening  played  cards  at  his 
club.  .  .  .  He  was  seldom  at  home,  spoke  little 
and  unwillingly,  looked  at  one  from  under  his 
eyebrows  with  an  expression  half  surly,  half 
indifferent,  and  read  nothing  except  books  of 

140 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

travels  and  geography.  Sometimes  he  was 
unwell,  and  then  he  would  shut  himself  up  in 
his  own  room,  and  paint  little  pictures,  or  tease 
the  old  grey  parrot,  Popka.  His  wife,  a  sickly, 
consumptive  woman,  with  hollow  black  eyes 
and  a  sharp  nose,  did  not  leave  her  sofa  for 
days  together,  and  was  always  embroidering 
cushion-covers  in  canvas.  As  far  as  I  could 
observe,  she  was  rather  afraid  of  her  husband, 
as  though  she  had  somehow  wronged  him  at 
some  time  or  other.  The  elder  daughter, 
Varvara,  a  plump,  rosy,  fair-haired  girl  of 
eighteen,  was  always  sitting  at  the  window, 
watching  the  people  that  passed  by.  The 
son,  who  was  being  educated  in  ^  government  y 

school,  was   only  seen  at  home  on    Sundays,      0    .-^ 
and  he,  too,  did  not  care  to  waste  his  words.  _^^^ 
Even  the   younger  daughter,  Sophia,  the  girl.  ^ 

with  whom  I  was  in  love,  was  of  a  silenf  dis- 
position. In  the  Zlotnitskys'  house  there 
reigned  a  perpetual  stillness ;  it  was  only 
broken  by  the  piercing  screams  of  Popka,  but 
visitors  soon  got  used  to  these,  and  were  con- 
scious again  of  the  burden  and  oppression  of 
the  eternal  stillness.  Visitors,  however,  seldom 
looked  in  upon  the  Zlotnitskys  ;  their  house 
was  a  dull  one.  The  very  furniture,  the  red 
paper  with  yellow  patterns  in  the  drawing- 
room,  the  numerous   rush-bottomed  chairs   in 

141 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

the  dining-room,  the  faded  wool-work  cushions, 
embroidered  with  figures  of  girls  and  dogs,  on 
the  sofa,  the  branching  lamps,  and  the  gloomy- 
looking  portraits  on  the  walls  —  everything 
inspired  an  involuntary  melancholy,  about 
everything  there  clung  a  sense  of  chill  and 
flatness.  On  my  arrival  in  Petersburg,  I  had 
thought  it  my  duty  to  call  on  the  Zlotnitskys. 
They  were  relations  of  my  mother's.  I  managed 
with  difficulty  to  sit  out  an  hour  with  them, 
and  it  was  a  long  while  before  I  went  there 
again.  But  by  degrees  I  took  to  going  oftener 
and  oftener.  I  was  drawn  there  by  Sophia, 
whom  I  had  not  cared  for  at  first,  and  with 
whom  I  finally  fell  in  love. 

She  was  a  slender,  almost  thin,  girl  of 
medium  height,  with  a  pale  face,  thick  black 
hair,  and  big  brown  eyes,  always  half  closed. 
Her  severe  and  well-defined  features,  especially 
her  tightly  shut  lips,  showed  determination  and 
strength  of  will.  At  home  they  knew  her  to 
be  a  girl  with  a  will  of  her  own.  .  .  . 

*  She 's  like  her  eldest  sister,  like  Katerina,' 
Madame  Zlotnitsky  said  one  day,  as  she  sat 
alone  with  me  (in  her  husband's  presence  she 
did  not  dare  to  mention  the  said  Katerina). 
'  You  don't  know  her ;  she  's  in  the  Caucasus, 
married.  At  thirteen,  only  fancy,  she  fell  in 
love  with  her  husband,  and  announced  to  us  at 

142 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

the  time  that  she  would  never  marry  any  one 
else.  We  did  everything  we  could — nothing 
was  of  any  use.  She  waited  till  she  was  three- 
and-twenty,  and  braved  her  father's  anger,  and 
so  married  her  idol.  There  is  no  saying  what 
Sonitchka  might  not  do !  The  Lord  preserve 
her  from  such  stubbornness  !  But  I  am  afraid 
for  her  ;  she 's  only  sixteen  now,  and  there 's 
no  turning  her.  .  .  .' 

Mr.  Zlotnitsky  came  in,  and  his  wife  was 
instantly  silent. 

What  had  captivated  me  in  Sophia  was  not 
her  strength  of  will — no ;  but  with  all  her 
dryness,  her  lack  of  vivacity  and  imagination, 
she  had  a  special  charm  of  her  own,  the  charm 
of  straightforwardness,  genuine  sincerity,  and 
purity  of  heart.  I  respected  her  as  much  as  I 
loved  her.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  too 
looked  with  friendly  eyes  on  me  ;  to  have  my 
illusions  as  to  her  feeling  for  me  shattered,  and 
her  love  for  another  man  proved  conclusively, 
was  a  blow  to  me. 

The  unlooked-for  discovery  I  had  made 
astonished  me  the  more  as  Asanov  was  not 
often  at  the  Zlotnitskys'  house,  much  less  so 
than  I,  and  had  shown  no  marked  preference 
for  Sonitchka.  He  was  a  handsome,  dark 
fellow,  with  expressive  but  rather  heavy 
features,  with  brilliant,  prominent  eyes,  with  a 

143 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

large  white  forehead,  and  full  red  lips  under 
fine  moustaches.  He  was  very  discreet,  but 
severe  in  his  behaviour,  confident  in  his  criti- 
cisms and  utterances,  and  dignified  in  his 
silence.  It  was  obvious  that  he  thought  a 
great  deal  of  himself.  Asanov  rarely  laughed, 
and  then  with  closed  teeth,  and  he  never 
danced.  He  was  rather  loosely  and  clumsily 
built.  He  had  at  one  time  served  in  the  — th 
regiment,  and  was  spoken  of  as  a  capable 
officer. 

'  A  strange  thing  ! '  I  ruminated,  lying  on  the 
sofa  ;  '  how  was  it  I  noticed  nothing  ?'...'  Be 
careful  as  before ' :  those  words  in  Sophia's 
letter  suddenly  recurred  to  my  memory.  '  Ah  ! ' 
I  thought :  '  that 's  it !  What  a  sly  little  hussy  ! 
And  I  thought  her  open  and  sincere.  .  .  .  Wait 
a  bit,  that 's  all ;  I  '11  let  you  know^  .  .  .' 

But  at  this  point,  if  I  can  trust  my  memory, 
I  began  weeping  bitterly,  and  could  not  get  to 
sleep  all  night. 

Next  day  at  two  o'clock  I  set  off  to  the 
Zlotnitskys'.  The  father  was  not  at  home,  and 
his  wife  was  not  sitting  in  her  usual  place ; 
after  the  pancake  festival  of  the  preceding  day, 
she  had  a  headache,  and  had  gone  to  lie  down 
in  her  bedroom.  Varvara  was  standing  with 
her  shoulder  against  the  window,  looking  into 

144 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

the  street ;  Sophia  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  room  with  her  arms  folded  across  her 
bosom  ;   Popka  was  shrieking. 

*  Ah  !  how  do  you  do  ? '  said  Varvara  lazily, 
directly  I  came  into  the  room,  and  she  added 
at  once  in  an  undertone,  '  There  goes  a  peasant 
with  a  tray  on  his  head.'  .  .  .  (She  had  the 
habit  of  keeping  up  a  running  commentary 
on  the  passers-by  to  herself.) 

'  How  do  you  do  ?  '  I  responded  ;  '  how  do 
you  do,  Sophia  Nikolaevna?  Where  isTatiana 
Vassilievna  ? ' 

'  She  has  gone  to  lie  down,'  answered  Sophia, 
still  pacing  the  room. 

'  We  had  pancakes,'  observed  Varvara,  with- 
out turning  round.  'Why  didn't  you  come? 
.  .  .  Where  can  that  clerk  be  going  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  I  hadn't  time.'  ('  Present  arms  ! '  the 
parrot  screeched  shrilly.)  '  How  Popka  is 
shrieking  to-day ! ' 

'  He  always  does  shriek  like  that,'  observed 
Sophia. 

We  were  all  silent  for  a  time. 

'  He  has  gone  in  at  the  gate,'  said  Varvara, 
and  she  suddenly  got  up  on  the  window-sill  and 
opened  the  window. 

'  What  are  you  about  ? '  asked  Sophia. 

'  There 's  a  beggar,'  responded  Varvara.  She 
bent  down,  picked  up  a  five-copeck  piece  from 

K  145 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

the  window ;  the  remains  of  a  fumigating 
pastille  still  stood  in  a  grey  heap  of  ashes  on 
the  copper  coin,  as  she  flung  it  into  the  street ; 
then  she  slammed  the  window  to  and  jumped 
heavily  down  to  the  floor.  .  .  . 

'  I  had  a  very  pleasant  time  yesterday,'  I 
began,  seating  myself  in  an  arm-chair.  '  I  dined 
with  a  friend  of  mine;  Konstantin  Alexandritch 
was  there.  ...  (I  looked  at  Sophia ;  not  an 
eyebrow  quivered  on  her  face.)  '  And  I  must 
own,'  I  continued,  '  we  'd  a  good  deal  of  wine  ; 
we  emptied  eight  bottles  between  the  four 
of  us.' 

*  Really  ! '  Sophia  articulated  serenely,  and 
she  shook  her  head. 

*Yes,'  I  went  on,  slightly  irritated  at  her 
composure :  *  and  do  you  know  what,  Sophia 
Nikolaevna,  it's  a  true  saying,  it  seems,  that 
in  wine  is  truth.' 

'  How  so?' 

'  Konstantin  Alexandritch  made  us  laugh. 
Only  fancy,  he  began  all  at  once  passing  his 
hand  over  his  forehead  like  this,  and  saying : 
"  I  'm  a  fine  fellow  !  I  've  an  uncle  a  celebrated 
man !"...' 

'  Ha,  ha ! '  came  Varvara's  short,  abrupt 
laugh. 

...  *  Popka  !  Popka  !  Popka ! '  the  parrot 
dinned  back  at  her. 

146 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

Sophia  stood  still  in  front  of  me,  and  looked 
me  straight  in  the  face. 

'  And  you,  what  did  you  say  ? '  she  asked  ; 
'  don't  you  remember  ? ' 

I  could  not  help  blushing. 

'  I  don't  remember !  I  expect  I  was  pretty 
absurd  too.  It  certainly  is  dangerous  to  drink,' 
I  added  with  significant  emphasis  ;  '  one  begins 
chattering  at  once,  and  one 's  apt  to  say  what 
no  one  ought  to  know.  One 's  sure  to  be  sorry 
for  it  afterwards,  but  then  it 's  too  late.' 

'  Why,  did  you  let  out  some  secret  ? '  asked 
Sophia. 

'  I  am  not  referring  to  myself 

Sophia  turned  away,  and  began  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  again.  I  stared  at  her, 
raging  inwardly.  '  Upon  my  word,'  I  thought, 
'  she  is  a  child,  a  baby,  and  how  she  has  herself 
in  hand  !  She 's  made  of  stone,  simply.  But 
wait  a  bit.  .  .  .' 

'  Sophia  Nikolaevna  .  .  .'  I  said  aloud. 

Sophia  stopped. 

'What  is  it?' 

'  Won't  you  play  me  something  on  the  piano  ? 
By  the  way,  I  've  something  I  want  to  say  to 
you,'  I  added,  dropping  my  voice. 

Sophia,  without  saying  a  word,  walked  into 
the  other  room ;  I  followed  her.  She  came  to 
a  standstill  at  the  piano. 

147 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  What  am  I  to  play  you  ? '  she  inquired. 

'  What  you  like . . .  one  of  Chopin's  nocturnes.' 

Sophia  began  the  nocturne.  She  played 
rather  badly,  but  with  feeling.  Her  sister 
played  nothing  but  polkas  and  waltzes,  and  even 
that  very  seldom.  She  would  go  sometimes 
with  her  indolent  step  to  the  piano,  sit  down, 
let  her  coat  slip  from  her  shoulders  down  to  her 
elbows  (I  never  saw  her  without  a  coat),  begin 
playing  a  polka  very  loud,  and  without  finishing 
it,  begin  another,  then  she  would  suddenly  heave 
a  sigh,  get  up,  and  go  back  again  to  the  window. 
A  queer  creature  was  that  Varvara ! 

I  sat  down  near  Sophia. 

'  Sophia  Nikolaevna,'  I  began,  watching  her 
intently  from  one  side.  '  I  ought  to  tell  you  a 
piece  of  news,  news  disagreeable  to  me.' 

'  News  ?  what  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  '11  tell  you.  .  .  .  Up  till  now  I  have  been 
mistaken  in  you,  completely  mistaken.' 

'  How  was  that  ? '  she  rejoined,  going  on 
playing,  and  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
fingers. 

'  1  imagined  you  to  be  open ;  I  imagined  that 
you  were  incapable  of  hypocrisy,  of  hiding  your 
feelings,  deceiving.  .  .  .' 

Sophia  bent  her  face  closer  over  the  music. 

'  I  don't  understand  you.' 

'  And  what 's  more,'  I  went  on ;  '  I  could  never 

148 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

have  conceived  that  you,  at  your  age,  were 
already  quite  capable  of  acting  a  part  in  such 
masterly  fashion.' 

Sophia's  hands  faintly  trembled  above  the 
keys.  '  Why  are  you  saying  this  ? '  she  said,  still 
not  looking  at  me  ;  '  I  play  a  part  ? ' 

'  Yes,  you  do,'  (She  smiled  ...  I  was  seized 
with  spiteful  fury.)  .  .  .  '  You  pretend  to  be 
indifferent  to  a  man  and  .  .  .  and  you  write 
letters  to  him,'  I  added  in  a  whisper. 

Sophia's  cheeks  grew  white,  but  she  did  not 
turn  to  me  :  she  played  the  nocturne  through  to 
the  end,  got  up,  and  closed  the  piano. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?  '  I  asked  her  in  some 
perplexity.  '  You  have  no  answer  to  make  me  ?  ' 

'What  answer  can  I  make  you?  I  don't 
know  what  you  're  talking  about.  .  .  .  And  I 
am  not  good  at  pretending.  .  .  .' 

She  began  putting  by  the  music. 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  head. 

'  No ;  you  know  what  I  am  talking  about,' 
I  said,  and  I  too  got  up  from  my  seat ;  '  or  if 
you  like,  I  will  remind  you  directly  of  some  of 
your  expressions  in  one  letter:  "  be  as  careful  as 
before"  .  .  .' 

Sophia  gave  a  faint  start. 

'  I  never  should  have  expected  this  of  you,' 
she  said  at  last. 

'  I  never  should  have  expected,'  I  retorted, 

149 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  that    you,    Sophia    Nikolaevna,    would    have 
deigned  to  notice  a  man  who  .  .  .' 

Sophia  turned  with  a  rapid  movement  to  me  ; 
I  instinctively  stepped  back  a  little  from  her  ; 
her  eyes,  always  half  closed,  were  so  wide  open 
that  they  looked  immense,  and  they  glittered 
wrathfully  under  her  frowning  brows. 

'  Oh !  if  that 's  it,'  she  said,  '  let  me  tell  you 
that  I  love  that  man,  and  that  it's  absolutely 
no  consequence  to  me  what  you  think  about 
him  or  about  my  love  for  him.  And  what 
business  is  it  of  yours  ?  .  .  .  What  right  have 
you  to  speak  of  this?  If  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  .  .  .' 

She  stopped  speaking,  and  went  hurriedly 
out  of  the  room.  I  stood  still.  I  felt  all  of  a 
sudden  so  uncomfortable  and  so  ashamed  that 
I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands.  I  realised  all  the 
impropriety,  all  the  baseness  of  my  behaviour, 
and,  choked  with  shame  and  remorse,  I  stood 
as  it  were  in  disgrace.  '  Mercy,'  I  thought, 
'  what  I  've  done  ! ' 

'  Anton  Nikititch,'  I  heard  the  maid-servant 
saying  in  the  outer-room,  '  get  a  glass  of  water, 
quick,  for  Sophia  Nikolaevna.' 

'  What 's  wrong  ? '  answered  the  man. 

'  I  fancy  she 's  crying.  .  .  .' 

I  started  up  and  went  into  the  drawing-room 
for  my  hat. 

150 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  What  were  you  talking  about  to  Sonitchka?' 
Varvara  inquired  indifferently,  and  after  a  brief 
pause  she  added  in  an  undertone,  '  Here 's  that 
clerk  again.' 

I  began  saying  good-bye. 

*  Why  are  you  going  ?  Stay  a  little  ;  mamma 
is  coming  down  directly.' 

'  No  ;  I  can't  now,'  I  said  :  *  I  had  better  call 
and  see  her  another  time.' 

At  that  instant,  to  my  horror,  to  my  positive 
horror,  Sophia  walked  with  resolute  steps  into 
the  drawing-room.  Her  face  was  paler  than 
usual,  and  her  eyelids  were  a  little  red.  She 
never  even  glanced  at  me. 

'  Look,  Sonia,'  observed  Varvara  ;  '  there 's  a 
clerk  keeps  continually  passing  our  house.' 

'  A  spy,  perhaps  .  .  .'  Sophia  remarked  coldly 
and  contemptuously. 

This  was  too  much.  I  went  away,  and  I 
really  don't  know  how  I  got  home. 

I  felt  very  miserable,  wretched  and  miserable 
beyond  description.  In  twenty-four  hours  two 
such  cruel  blows !  I  had  learned  that  Sophia 
loved  another  man,  and  I  had  for  ever  forfeited 
her  respect.  I  felt  myself  so  utterly  annihilated 
and  disgraced  that  I  could  not  even  feel  in- 
dignant with  myself.  Lying  on  the  sofa  with 
my  face  turned  to  the  wall,  I  was  revelling  in 
the   first   rush   of  despairing    misery,  when   I 

151 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

suddenly  heard  footsteps  in  the  room.  I  Hfted 
my  head  and  saw  one  of  my  most  intimate 
friends,  Yakov  Pasinkov. 

I  was  ready  to  fly  into  a  rage  with  any  one 
who  had  come  into  my  room  that  day,  but  with 
Pasinkov  I  could  never  be  angry.  Quite  the 
contrary ;  in  spite  of  the  sorrow  devouring 
me,  I  was  inwardly  rejoiced  at  his  coming, 
and  I  nodded  to  him.  He  walked  twice 
up  and  down  the  room,  as  his  habit  was, 
clearing  his  throat,  and  stretching  out  his  long 
limbs  ;  then  he  stood  a  minute  facing  me  in 
silence,  and  in  silence  he  seated  himself  in  a 
corner. 

I  had  known  Pasinkov  a  very  long  while, 
almost  from  childhood.  He  had  been  brought 
up  at  the  same  private  school,  kept  by  a  German, 
Winterkeller,  at  which  I  had  spent  three  years. 
Yakov's  father,  a  poor  major  on  the  retired  list, 
a  very  honest  man,  but  a  little  deranged 
mentally,  had  brought  him,  when  a  boy  of  seven, 
to  this  German  ;  had  paid  for  him  for  a  year  in 
advance,  and  had  then  left  Moscow  and  been 
lost  sight  of  completely.  .  .  .  From  time  to 
time  there  were  dark,  strange  rumours  about 
him.  Eight  years  later  it  was  known  as  a 
positive  fact  that  he  had  been  drowned  in  a 
flood  when  crossing  the  Irtish.  What  had 
taken    him    to    Siberia,    God    knows.     Yakov 

152 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

had  no  other  relations ;  his  mother  had  long 
been  dead.  He  was  simply  left  stranded  on 
Winterkeller's  hands.  Yakov  had,  it  is  true, 
a  distant  relation,  a  great-aunt  ;  but  she  was  so 
poor,  that  she  was  afraid  at  first  to  go  to 
her  nephew,  for  fear  she  should  have  the  care 
of  him  thrust  upon  her.  Her  fears  turned  out 
to  be  groundless ;  the  kind-hearted  German 
kept  Yakov  with  him,  let  him  study  with  his 
other  pupils,  fed  him  (dessert,  however,  was  not 
offered  him  except  on  Sundays),  and  rigged 
him  out  in  clothes  cut  out  of  the  cast-off 
morning-gowns — usually  snuff-coloured — of  his 
mother,  an  old  Livonian  lady,  still  alert  and 
active  in  spite  of  her  great  age.  Owing  to  all 
these  circumstances,  and  owing  generally  to 
Yakov's  inferior  position  in  the  school,  his 
schoolfellows  treated  him  in  rather  a  casual 
fashion,  looked  down  upon  him,  and  used  to 
call  him  '  mammy's  dressing-gown,'  the  '  nephew 
of  the  mob-cap '  (his  aunt  invariably  wore  a 
very  peculiar  mob-cap  with  a  bunch  of  yellow 
ribbons  sticking  straight  upright,  like  a  globe 
artichoke,  upon  it),  and  sometimes  the  '  son  of 
Yermak '  (because  his  father  had,  like  that  hero, 
been  drowned  in  the  Irtish).  But  in  spite  of 
those  nicknames,  in  spite  of  his  ridiculous  garb, 
and  his  absolute  destitution,  every  one  was  fond 
of  him,  and  indeed  it  was  impossible  not  to  be 

153 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

fond  of  him  ;  a  sweeter,  nobler  nature,  I  imagine, 
has  never  existed  upon  earth.  He  was  very- 
good  at  lessons  too. 

When  I  saw  him  first,  he  was  sixteen  years 
old,  and  I  was  only  just  thirteen.  I  was  an 
exceedingly  selfish  and  spoilt  boy  ;  I  had  grown 
up  in  a  rather  wealthy  house,  and  so,  on  enter- 
ing the  school,  I  lost  no  time  in  making  friends 
with  a  little  prince,  an  object  of  special  solicitude 
to  Winterkeller,  and  with  two  or  three  other 
juvenile  aristocrats  ;  while  I  gave  myself  great 
airs  with  all  the  rest.  Pasinkov  I  did  not  deign 
to  notice  at  all.  I  regarded  the  long,  gawky 
lad,  in  a  shapeless  coat  and  short  trousers,  which 
showed  his  coarse  thread  stockings,  as  some 
sort  of  page-boy,  one  of  the  house-serfs — at 
best,  a  person  of  the  working  class.  Pasinkov 
was  extremely  courteous  and  gentle  to  every- 
body, though  he  never  sought  the  society  of  any 
one.  If  he  were  rudely  treated,  he  was  neither 
humiliated  nor  sullen  ;  he  simply  withdrew  and 
held  himself  aloof,  with  a  sort  of  regretful  look, 
as  it  were  biding  his  time.  This  was  just  how 
he  behaved  with  me.  About  two  months  passed. 
One  bright  summer  day  I  happened  to  go  out 
of  the  playground  after  a  noisy  game  of  leap- 
frog, and  walking  into  the  garden  I  saw  Pasinkov 
sitting  on  a  bench  under  a  high  lilac-bush.  He 
was  reading.     I   glanced  at  the  cover  of  the 

154 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

book  as  I  passed,  and  read  Schiller  s  Werke  on 
the  back.     I  stopped  short. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  know  German  ? ' 
I  questioned  Pasinkov.  .  .  . 

I  feel  ashamed  to  this  day  as  I  recall  all  the 
arrogance  there  was  in  the  very  sound  of  my 
voice.  .  .  .  Pasinkov  softly  raised  his  small  but 
expressive  eyes  and  looked  at  me. 

'  Yes/  he  answered  ;  '  do  you  ? ' 

'  I  should  hope  so  ! '  I  retorted,  feeling  in- 
sulted at  the  question,  and  I  was  about  to  go 
on  my  way,  but  something  held  me  back. 

'  What  is  it  you  are  reading  of  Schiller  ? '  I 
asked,  with  the  same  haughty  insolence. 

*  At  this  moment  I  am  reading  "  Resigna- 
tion," a  beautiful  poem.  Would  you  like  me 
to  read  it  to  you  ?  Come  and  sit  here  by  me 
on  the  bench.' 

I  hesitated  a  little,  but  I  sat  down.  Pasinkov 
began  reading.  He  knew  German  far  better 
than  I  did.  He  had  to  explain  the  meaning 
of  several  lines  for  me.  But  already  I  felt  no 
shame  at  my  ignorance  and  his  superiority  to 
me.  From  that  day,  from  the  very  hour  of  our 
reading  together  in  the  garden,  in  the  shade 
of  the  lilac-bush,  I  loved  Pasinkov  with  my 
whole  soul,  I  attached  myself  to  him  and  fell 
completely  under  his  sway. 

I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  his  appearance 

155 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

in  those  days.  He  changed  very  little,  however, 
later  on.  He  was  tall,  thin,  and  rather awkwardl}/ 
built,  with  a  long  back,  narrow  shoulders,  and  a 
hollow  chest,  which  made  him  look  rather  frail 
and  delicate,  although  as  a  fact  he  had  nothing  to 
complain  of  on  the  score  of  health.  His  large, 
dome-shaped  head  was  carried  a  little  on  one 
side  ;  his  soft,  flaxen  hair  straggled  in  lank  locks 
about  his  slender  neck.  His  face  was  not  hand- 
some, and  might  even  have  struck  one  as  absurd, 
owing  to  the  long,  full,  and  reddish  nose,  which 
seemed  almost  to  overhang  his  wide,  straight 
mouth.  But  his  open  brow  was  splendid ;  and 
when  he  smiled,  his  little  grey  eyes  gleamed 
with  such  mild  and  affectionate  goodness,  that 
every  one  felt  warmed  and  cheered  at  heart  at 
the  very  sight  of  him.  I  remember  his  voice 
too,  soft  and  even,  with  a  peculiar  sort  of  sweet 
huskiness  in  it.  He  spoke,  as  a  rule,  little,  and 
with  noticeable  difficulty.  But  when  he  warmed 
up,  his  words  flowed  freely,  and — strange  to 
say ! — his  voice  grew  still  softer,  his  glance 
seemed  turned  inward  and  lost  its  fire,  while 
his  whole  face  faintly  glowed.  On  his  lips  the 
words  'goodness,'  '  truth,'  '  life,'  '  science,'  '  love,' 
however  enthusiastically  they  were  uttered, 
never  rang  with  a  false  note.  Without  strain, 
without  effort,  he  stepped  into  the  realm  of 
the  ideal ;  his   pure  soul   was   at  any  moment 

156 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

ready  to  stand  before  the  '  holy  shrine  of 
beauty';  it  awaited  only  the  welcoming  call, 
the  contact  of  another  soul.  .  .  .  Pasinkov  was 
an  idealist,  one  of  the  last  idealists  whom  it 
has  been  my  lot  to  come  across.  Idealists,  as 
we  all  know,  are  all  but  extinct  in  these  days  ; 
there  are  none  of  them,  at  any  rate,  among  the 
young  people  of  to-day.  So  much  the  worse 
for  the  young  people  of  to-day  ! 

About  three  years  I  spent  with  Pasinkov, 
'  soul  in  soul,'  as  the  saying  is.  I  was  the 
confidant  of  his  first  love.  With  what  grateful 
sympathy  and  intentness  I  listened  to  his 
avowal !  The  object  of  his  passion  was  a 
niece  of  Winterkeller's,  a  fair-haired,  pretty 
little  German,  with  a  chubby,  almost  childish 
little  face,  and  confidingly  soft  blue  eyes.  She 
was  very  kind  and  sentimental :  she  loved 
Mattison,  Uhland,  and  Schiller,  and  repeated 
their  verses  very  sweetly  in  her  timid,  musical 
voice.  Pasinkov's  love  was  of  the  most  platonic. 
He  only  saw  his  beloved  on  Sundays,  when  she 
used  to  come  and  play  at  forfeits  with  the 
Winterkeller  children,  and  he  had  very  little 
conversation  with  her.  But  once,  when  she 
said  to  him,  '  mein  lieber,  lieber  Herr  Jacob ! ' 
he  did  not  sleep  all  night  from  excess  of  bliss. 
It  never  even  struck  him  at  the  time  that  she 
called    all    his    schoolfellows  '  mein  lieber.'      I 

157 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

remember,  too,  his  grief  and  dejection  when 
the  news  suddenly  reached  us  that  Fraulein 
Frederike — that  was  her  name — was  going  to 
be  married  to  Herr  Kniftus,  the  owner  of  a 
prosperous  butcher's  shop,  a  very  handsome 
man,  and  well  educated  too  ;  and  that  she  was 
marrying  him,  not  simply  in  submission  to 
parental  authority,  but  positively  from  love. 
It  was  a  bitter  blow  for  Pasinkov,  and  his 
sufferings  were  particularly  severe  on  the  day 
of  the  young  people's  first  visit.  The  former 
Fraulein,  now  Frau,  Frederike  presented  him, 
once  more  addressing  him  as  'lieber  Herr 
Jacob,'  to  her  husband,  who  was  all  splendour 
from  top  to  toe  ;  his  eyes,  his  black  hair 
brushed  up  into  a  tuft,  his  forehead  and  his 
teeth,  and  his  coat  buttons,  and  the  chain  on 
his  waistcoat,  everything,  down  to  the  boots 
on  his  rather  large,  turned-out  feet,  shone  bril- 
liantly. Pasinkov  pressed  Herr  Kniftus's  hand, 
and  wished  him  (and  the  wish  was  sincere, 
that  I  am  certain)  complete  and  enduring 
happiness.  This  took  place  in  my  presence. 
I  remember  with  what  admiration  and  sym- 
pathy I  gazed  at  Yakov.  I  thought  him  a 
hero !  .  .  .  And  afterwards,  what  mournful  con- 
versations passed  between  us.  '  Seek  consola- 
tion in  art,'  I  said  to  him.  '  Yes,'  he  answered 
me ;  '  and  in   poetry.'      '  And  in  friendship,'   I 

158 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

added.     '  And  in  friendship/  he  repeated.     Oh, 
happy  days  !  .  .  . 

It  was  a  grief  to  me  to  part  from  Pasinkov. 
Just  before  I  left  school,  he  had,  after  prolonged 
efforts  and  difficulties,  after  a  correspondence 
often  amusing,  succeeded  in  obtaining  his 
certificates  of  birth  and  baptism  and  his 
passport,  and  had  entered  the  university.  He 
still  went  on  living  at  Winterkeller's  expense  ; 
but  instead  of  home-made  jackets  and  breeches, 
he  was  provided  now  with  ordinary  attire,  in 
return  for  lessons  on  various  subjects,  which 
he  gave  the  younger  pupils.  Pasinkov  was 
unchanged  in  his  behaviour  to  me  up  to  the 
end  of  my  time  at  the  school,  though  the 
difference  in  our  ages  began  to  be  more 
noticeable,  and  I,  I  remember,  grew  jealous 
of  some  of  his  new  student  friends.  His 
influence  on  me  was  most  beneficial.  It  was 
a  pity  it  did  not  last  longer.  To  give  a  single 
instance :  as  a  child  I  was  in  the-  habit  of  tell- 
ing lies.  ...  In  Yakov's  presence  I  could  not 
bring  my  tongue  to  utter  an  untruth.  What  I 
particularly  loved  was  walking  alone  with  him, 
or  pacing  by  his  side  up  and  down  the  room, 
listening  while  he,  not  looking  at  me,  read  poetry 
in  his  soft,  intense  voice.  It  positively  seemed 
to  me  that  we  were  slowly,  gradually,  getting 
away  from  the  earth,  and  soaring  away  to  some 

159 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

radiant,  glorious  land  of  mystery.  ...  I  re- 
member one  night.  We  were  sitting  together 
under  the  same  lilac-bush ;  we  were  fond  of 
that  spot.  All  our  companions  were  asleep  ; 
but  we  had  softly  got  up,  dressed,  fumbling  in 
the  dark,  and  stealthily  stepped  out  '  to  dream.' 
It  was  fairly  warm  out  of  doors,  but  a  fresh 
breeze  blew  now  and  then  and  made  us  huddle 
closer  together.  We  talked,  we  talked  a  lot, 
and  with  much  warmth — so  much  so,  that  we 
positively  interrupted  each  other,  though  we  did 
not  argue.  In  the  sky  gleamed  stars  innumer- 
able. Yakov  raised  his  eyes,  and  pressing  my 
hand  he  softly  cried  out : 

'  Above  our  heads 
The  sky  with  the  eternal  stars.  .  .  . 
Above  the  stars  their  Maker.  .  .  .' 

A  thrill  of  awe  ran  through  me ;  I  felt  cold 
all  over,  and  sank  on  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  My 
heart  was  full.  .  .  .  Where  are  those  raptures  ? 
Alas  !  where  youth  is. 

In  Petersburg  I  met  Yakov  again  eight  years 
after.  I  had  only  just  been  appointed  to  a 
position  in  the  service,  and  some  one  had  got 
him  a  little  post  in  some  department.  Our 
meeting  was  most  joyful.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  moment  when,  sitting  alone  one  day  at  home, 
I  suddenly  heard  his  voice  in  the  passage.  .  .  . 

1 60 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

How  I  started  ;  with  what  throbbing  at  the  heart 
I  leaped  up  and  flung  myself  on  his  neck,  without 
giving  him  time  to  take  off  his  fur  overcoat  and 
unfasten  his  scarf!  How  greedily  I  gazed  at 
him  through  bright,  involuntary  tears  of  tender- 
ness !  He  had  grown  a  little  older  during  those 
seven  years ;  lines,  delicate  as  if  they  had  been 
traced  by  a  needle,  furrowed  his  brow  here  and 
there,  his  cheeks  were  a  little  more  hollow,  and 
his  hair  was  thinner ;  but  he  had  hardly  more 
beard,  and  his  smile  was  just  the  same  as  ever ; 
and  his  laugh,  a  soft,  inward,  as  it  were  breath- 
less laugh,  was  the  same  too.  .  .  . 

Mercy  on  us !  what  didn't  we  talk  about  that 
day !  .  .  .  The  favourite  poems  we  read  to  one 
another !  I  began  begging  him  to  move  and 
come  and  live  with  me,  but  he  would  not  con- 
sent. He  promised,  however,  to  come  every 
day  to  see  me,  and  he  kept  his  word. 

In  soul,  too,  Pasinkov  was  unchanged.  He 
showed  himself  just  the  same  idealist  as  I  had 
always  known  him.  However  rudely  life's  chill, 
the  bitter  chill  of  experience,  had  closed  in 
about  him,  the  tender  flower  that  had  bloomed 
so  early  in  my  friend's  heart  had  kept  all  its 
pure  beauty  untouched.  There  was  no  trace  of 
sadness  even,  no  trace  even  of  melancholy  in 
him  ;  he  was  quiet,  as  he  had  always  been,  but 
everlastingly  glad  at  heart. 
L  i6i 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

In  Petersburg  he  lived  as  in  a  wilderness,  not 
thinking  of  the  future,  and  knowing  scarcely 
any  one.  I  took  him  to  the  Zlotnitskys'.  He 
used  to  go  and  see  them  rather  often.  Not 
being  self-conscious,  he  was  not  shy,  but  in 
their  house,  as  everywhere,  he  said  very  little ; 
they  liked  him,  however.  Even  the  tedious 
old  man,  Tatiana  Vassilievna's  husband,  was 
friendly  to  him,  and  both  the  silent  girls  were 
soon  quite  at  home  with  him. 

Sometimes  he  would  arrive,  bringing  with 
him  in  the  back  pocket  of  his  coat  some  book 
that  had  just  come  out,  and  for  a  long  time 
would  not  make  up  his  mind  to  read,  but  would 
keep  stretching  his  neck  out  on  one  side,  like  a 
bird,  looking  about  him  as  though  inquiring, 
'  could  he  ?  '  At  last  he  would  establish  him- 
self in  a  corner  (he  always  liked  sitting  in 
corners),  would  pull  out  a  book  and  set  to 
reading,  at  first  in  a  whisper,  then  louder  and 
louder,  occasionally  interrupting  himself  with 
brief  criticisms  or  exclamations.  I  noticed  that 
Varvara  was  readier  to  sit  by  him  and  listen 
than  her  sister,  though  she  certainly  did  not 
understand  much ;  literature  was  not  in  her 
line.  She  would  sit  opposite  Pasinkov,  her  chin 
in  her  hands,  staring  at  him — not  into  his  eyes, 
but  into  his  whole  face — and  would  not  utter  a 
syllable,  but  only  heave  a  noisy,  sudden  sigh. 

162 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

Sometimes  in  the  evenings  we  used  to  play  for- 
feits, especially  on  Sundays  and  holidays.  We 
were  joined  on  these  occasions  by  two  plump, 
short  young  ladies,  sisters,  and  distant  relations 
of  the  Zlotnitskys,  terribly  given  to  giggling, 
and  a  few  lads  from  the  military  school,  very 
good-natured,  quiet  fellows.  Pasinkov  always 
used  to  sit  beside  Tatiana  Vassilievna,  and  with 
her,  judge  what  was  to  be  done  to  the  one  who 
had  to  pay  a  forfeit. 

Sophia  did  not  like  the  kisses  and  such 
demonstrations,  with  which  forfeits  are  often 
paid,  while  Varvara  used  to  be  cross  if  she  had 
to  look  for  anything  or  guess  something.  The 
young  ladies  giggled  incessantly  —  laughter 
seemed  to  bubble  up  by  some  magic  in  them, 
— I  sometimes  felt  positively  irritated  as  I 
looked  at  them,  but  Pasinkov  only  smiled  and 
shook  his  head.  Old  Zlotnitsky  took  no  part 
in  our  games,  and  even  looked  at  us  rather  dis- 
approvingly from  the  door  of  his  study.  Only 
once,  utterly  unexpectedly,  he  came  in  to  us, 
and  proposed  that  whoever  had  next  to  pay  a 
forfeit  should  waltz  with  him ;  we,  of  course, 
agreed.  It  happened  to  be  Tatiana  Vassilievna 
who  had  to  pay  the  forfeit.  She  crimsoned  all 
over,  and  was  confused  and  abashed  like  a  girl 
of  fifteen ;  but  her  husband  at  once  told  Sophia  to 
go  to  the  piano,  while  he  went  up  to  his  wife,  and 

163 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

waltzed  two  rounds  with  her  of  the  old-fashioned 
trois  temps  waltz.  I  remember  how  his  bilious, 
gloomy  face,  with  its  never-smiling  eyes,  kept 
appearing  and  disappearing  as  he  slowly  turned 
round,  his  stern  expression  never  relaxing.  He 
waltzed  with  a  long  step  and  a  hop,  while  his 
wife  pattered  rapidly  with  her  feet,  and  huddled 
up  with  her  face  close  to  his  chest,  as  though 
she  were  in  terror.  He  led  her  to  her  place, 
bowed  to  her,  went  back  to  his  room  and  shut 
the  door.  Sophia  was  just  getting  up,  but 
Varvara  asked  her  to  go  on,  went  up  to 
Pasinkov,  and  holding  out  her  hand,  with  an 
awkward  smile,  said,  '  Will  you  like  a  turn  ? ' 
Pasinkov  was  surprised,  but  he  jumped  up — 
he  was  always  distinguished  by  the  most 
delicate  courtesy — and  took  Varvara  by  the 
waist,  but  he  slipped  down  at  the  first  step,  and 
leaving  hold  of  his  partner  at  once,  rolled  right 
under  the  pedestal  on  which  the  parrot's  cage 
was  standing.  .  .  .  The  cage  fell,  the  parrot 
was  frightened  and  shrieked,  '  Present  arms  ! ' 
Every  one  laughed.  .  .  .  Zlotnitsky  appeared 
at  his  study  door,  looked  grimly  at  us,  and 
slammed  the  door  to.  From  that  time  forth, 
one  had  only  to  allude  to  this  incident  before 
Varvara,  and  she  would  go  off  into  peals  of 
laughter  at  once,  and  look  at  Pasinkov,  as 
though  anything  cleverer   than    his   behaviour 

164 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

on    that   occasion    it   was   impossible   to    con- 
ceive. 

Pasinkov  was  very  fond  of  music.  He  used 
often  to  beg  Sophia  to  play  him  something, 
and  to  sit  on  one  side  listening,  and  now  and 
then  humming  in  a  thin  voice  the  most 
pathetic  passages.  He  was  particularly  fond 
of  Schubert's  Constellation.  He  used  to 
declare  that  when  he  heard  the  air  played  he 
could  always  fancy  that  with  the  sounds  long 
rays  of  azure  light  came  pouring  down  from  on 
high,  straight  upon  him.  To  this  day,  whenever 
I  look  upon  a  cloudless  sky  at  night,  with  the 
softly  quivering  stars,  I  always  recall  Schubert's 
melody  and  Pasinkov.  .  .  .  An  excursion  into 
the  country  comes  back  to  my  mind.  We  set 
out,  a  whole  party  of  us,  in  two  hired  four- 
wheel  carriages,  to  Pargolovo.  I  remember  we 
took  the  carriages  from  the  Vladimirsky ;  they 
were  very  old,  and  painted  blue,  with  round 
springs,  and  a  wide  box-seat,  and  bundles  of 
hay  inside ;  the  brown,  broken-winded  horses 
that  drew  us  along  at  a  slow  trot  were  each 
lame  in  a  different  leg.  We  strolled  a  long 
while  about  the  pinewoods  round  Pargolovo, 
drank  milk  out  of  earthenware  pitchers,  and  ate 
wild  strawberries  and  sugar.  The  weather  was 
exquisite.  Varvara  did  not  care  for  long  walks  : 
she    used    soon    to   get   tired  ;    but    this   time 

165 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

she  did  not  lag  behind  us.  She  took  off  her 
hat,  her  hair  came  down,  her  heavy  features 
Hghted  up,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed.  Meet- 
ing two  peasant  girls  in  the  wood,  she  sat  down 
suddenly  on  the  ground,  called  them  to  her,  did 
not  patronise  them,  but  made  them  sit  down 
beside  her.  Sophia  looked  at  them  from  some 
distance  with  a  cold  smile,  and  did  not  go 
up  to  them.  She  was  walking  with  Asanov. 
Zlotnitsky  observed  that  Varvara  was  a  regular 
hen  for  sitting.  Varvara  got  up  and  walked 
away.  In  the  course  of  the  walk  she  several 
times  went  up  to  Pasinkov,  and  said  to  him, 
'  Yakov  Ivanitch,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,' 
but  what  she  wanted  to  tell  him — remained 
unknown. 

But  it 's  high  time  for  me  to  get  back  to  my 
story. 

I  was  glad  to  see  Pasinkov ;  but  when  I 
recalled  what  I  had  done  the  day  before,  I  felt 
unutterably  ashamed,  and  I  hurriedly  turned 
away  to  the  wall  again.  After  a  brief  pause, 
Yakov  asked  me  if  I  were  unwell. 

'  I  'm  quite  well,'  I  answered  through  my 
teeth  ;  '  only  my  head  aches.' 

Yakov  made  no  reply,  and  took  up  a  book. 
More  than  an  hour  passed  by ;  I  was  just 
coming  to  the  point  of  confessing  everything  to 

1 66 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

Yakov  .  .  .  suddenly  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
outer  bell  of  my  flat. 

The  door  on  to  the  stairs  was  opened.  ...  I 
listened.  .  .  .  Asanov  was  asking  my  servant 
if  I  were  at  home. 

Pasinkov  got  up  ;  he  did  not  care  for  Asanov, 
and  telling  me  in  a  whisper  that  he  would  go 
and  lie  down  on  my  bed,  he  went  into  my  bed- 
room. 

A  minute  later  Asanov  entered. 

From  the  very  sight  of  his  flushed  face,  from 
his  brief,  cool  bow,  I  guessed  that  he  had  not 
come  to  me  without  some  set  purpose  in  his 
mind.  '  What  is  going  to  happen  ? '  I  won- 
dered. 

'  Sir,'  he  began,  quickly  seating  himself  in  an 
armchair,  '  I  have  come  to  you  for  you  to  settle 
a  matter  of  doubt  for  me.' 

*  And  that  is  ? ' 

*  That  is  :  I  wish  to  know  whether  you  are  an 
honest  man.' 

I  flew  into  a  rage.  '  What 's  the  meaning  of 
that?'  I  demanded. 

'  I  '11  tell  you  what 's  the  meaning  of  it,'  he 
retorted,  underlining  as  it  were  each  word. 
'  Yesterday  I  showed  you  a  pocket-book  con- 
taining letters  from  a  certain  person  to  me.  .  .  . 
To-day  you  repeated  to  that  person,  with  re- 
proach— with  reproach,  observe — some  expres- 

167 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

sions  from  those  letters,  without  having  the 
slightest  right  to  do  so.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  explanation  you  can  give  of  this  ? ' 

'  And  I  should  like  to  know  what  right  you 
have  to  cross-examine  me/  I  answered,  trem- 
bling with  fury  and  inward  shame.  '  You  chose 
to  boast  of  your  uncle,  of  your  correspondence  ; 
I  'd  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  've  got  all  your 
letters  all  right,  haven't  you  ? ' 

'  The  letters  are  all  right  ;  but  I  was 
yesterday  in  a  condition  in  which  you  could 
easily ' 

'  In  short,  sir,'  I  began,  speaking  intentionally 
as  loud  as  I  could,  '  I  beg  you  to  leave  me 
alone,  do  you  hear?  I  don't  want  to  know  any- 
thing about  it,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  give  you 
any  explanation.  You  can  go  to  that  person 
for  explanations  ! '  I  felt  that  my  head  was 
beginning  to  go  round. 

Asanov  turned  upon  me  a  look  to  which  he 
obviously  tried  to  impart  an  air  of  scornful 
penetration,  pulled  his  moustaches,  and  got  up 
slowly. 

'  I  know  now  what  to  think,'  he  observed ; 
'your  face  is  the  best  evidence  against  you. 
But  I  must  tell  you  that  that 's  not  the  way 
honourable  people  behave.  .  .  .  To  read  a  letter 
on  the  sly,  and  then  to  go  and  worry  an  honour- 
able girl.  .  .  .' 

1 68 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

*  Will  you  go  to  the  devil ! '  I  shouted, 
stamping,  '  and  send  me  a  second ;  I  don't 
mean  to  talk  to  you.' 

'  Kindly  refrain  from  telling  me  what  to  do,' 
Asanov  retorted  frigidly ;  '  but  I  certainly  will 
send  a  second  to  you.' 

He  went  away.  I  fell  on  the  sofa  and  hid 
my  face  in  my  hands.  Some  one  touched  me 
on  the  shoulder ;  I  moved  my  hands — before 
me  was  standing  Pasinkov. 

'  What 's  this  ?  is  it  true  ? '  .  .  .  he  asked  me. 
'  You  read  another  man's  letter  ?  ' 

I  had  not  the  strength  to  answer,  but  I 
nodded  in  assent. 

Pasinkov  went  to  the  window,  and  standing 
with  his  back  to  me,  said  slowly :  '  You  read 
a  letter  from  a  girl  to  Asanov.  Who  was  the 
girl?' 

'  Sophia  Zlotnitsky,'  I  answered,  as  a  prisoner 
on  his  trial  answers  the  judge. 

For  a  long  while  Pasinkov  did  not  utter  a 
word. 

*  Nothing  but  passion  could  to  some  extent 
excuse  you,'  he  began  at  last.  '  Are  you  in 
love  then  with  the  younger  Zlotnitsky  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

Pasinkov  was  silent  again  for  a  little. 
'  I  thought  so.     And  you  went  to  her  to-day 
and  began  reproaching  her  ?  .  .  .' 

169 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  Yes,  yes,  yes  !...'!  articulated  desperately. 
'  Now  you  can  despise  me.  .  .  .' 

Pasinkov  walked  a  couple  of  times  up  and 
down  the  room. 

'  And  she  loves  him  ? '  he  queried. 

'  She  loves  him.  .  .  .' 

Pasinkov  looked  down,  and  gazed  a  long 
while  at  the  floor  without  moving. 

'  Well,  it  must  be  set  right,'  he  began,  raising 
his  head,  '  things  can't  be  left  like  this.' 

And  he  took  up  his  hat. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?  ' 

'  To  Asanov.' 

I  jumped  up  from  the  sofa. 

'  But  I  won't  let  you.  Good  heavens !  how 
can  you  !  what  will  he  think  ? ' 

Pasinkov  looked  at  me. 

'  Why,  do  you  think  it  better  to  keep  this 
folly  up,  to  bring  ruin  on  yourself,  and  disgrace 
on  the  girl  ?  ' 

'  But  what  are  you  going  to  say  to  Asanov  ?  ' 

'  I  '11  try  and  explain  things  to  him,  I  '11  tell 
him  you  beg  his  forgiveness  .  .  .' 

'  But  I  don't  want  to  apologise  to  him  ! ' 

*  You  don't  ?     Why,  aren't  you  in  fault  ?  ' 

I  looked  at  Pasinkov ;  the  calm  and  severe, 
though  mournful,  expression  of  his  face  im- 
pressed me ;  it  was  new  to  me.  I  made  no 
reply,  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

170 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

Pasinkov  went  out. 

"  In  what  agonies  of  suspense  I  waited  for 
his  return !  With  what  cruel  slowness  the 
time  lingered  by !  At  last  he  came  back — 
late. 

'  Well  ? '  I  queried  in  a  timid  voice. 

'  Thank  goodness  ! '  he  answered  ;  '  it 's  all 
settled.' 

'  You  have  been  at  Asanov's  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Well,  and  he  ? — made  a  great  to-do,  I  sup- 
pose ? '  I  articulated  with  an  effort. 

'  No,  I  can't  say  that.  I  expected  more  .  .  . 
He  ...  he 's  not  such  a  vulgar  fellow  as  I 
thought.' 

'Well,  and  have  you  seen  any  one  else  be- 
sides ? '  I  asked,  after  a  brief  pause. 

'  I  've  been  at  the  Zlotnitskys'.' 

'  Ah  !  .  .  .'  (My  heart  began  to  throb.  I  did 
not  dare  look  Pasinkov  in  the  face.)  *  Well, 
and  she  ? ' 

'  Sophia  Nikolaevna  is  a  reasonable,  kind- 
hearted  girl.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  is  a  kind-hearted 
girl.  She  felt  awkward  at  first,  but  she  was 
soon  at  ease.  But  our  whole  conversation  only 
lasted  five  minutes.' 

'  And  you  .  .  .  told  her  everything  .  .  .  about 
me  .  .  .  everything  ? ' 

'  I  told  her  what  was  necessary.' 

171 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

'  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go  and  see  them 
again  now ! '  I  pronounced  dejectedly.  .  .  . 

'Why?  No,  you  can  go  occasionally.  On 
the  contrary,  you  are  absolutely  bound  to  go 
and  see  them,  so  that  nothing  should  be 
thought.  .  .  .' 

'  Ah,  Yakov,  you  will  despise  me  now  ! '  I 
cried,  hardly  keeping  back  my  tears. 

*  Me  !  Despise  you  ?  .  .  .'  (His  affectionate 
eyes  glowed  with  love.)  '  Despise  you  .  .  .  silly 
fellow !  Don't  I  see  how  hard  it 's  been  for 
you,  how  you  're  suffering  ? ' 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  me ;  I  fell  on  his 
neck  and  broke  into  sobs. 

After  a  few  days,  during  which  I  noticed  that 
Pasinkov  was  in  very  low  spirits,  I  made  up  my 
mind  at  last  to  go  to  the  Zlotnitskys'.  What 
I  felt,  as  I  stepped  into  their  drawing-room, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  convey  in  words ;  I 
remember  that  I  could  hardly  distinguish  the 
persons  in  the  room,  and  my  voice  failed  me. 
Sophia  was  no  less  ill  at  ease  ;  she  obviously 
forced  herself  to  address  me,  but  her  eyes 
avoided  mine  as  mine  did  hers,  and  every  move- 
ment she  made,  her  whole  being,  expressed 
constraint,  mingled  .  .  .  why  conceal  the  truth  ? 
with  secret  aversion.  I  tried,  as  far  as  possible, 
to   spare   her   and    myself  from    such   painful 

172 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

sensations.  This  meeting  was  happily  our  last 
— before  her  marriage.  A  sudden  change  in 
my  fortunes  carried  me  off  to  the  other  end  of 
Russia,  and  I  bade  a  long  farewell  to  Peters- 
burg, to  the  Zlotnitsky  family,  and,  what  was 
most  grievous  of  all  for  me,  to  dear  Yakov 
Pasinkov. 


173 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 


II 

Seven  years  had  passed  by.  I  don't  think  it 
necessary  to  relate  all  that  happened  to  me 
during  that  period.  I  moved  restlessly  about 
over  Russia,  and  made  my  way  into  the  re- 
motest wilds,  and  thank  God  I  did  !  The 
wilds  are  not  so  much  to  be  dreaded  as  some 
people  suppose,  and  in  the  most  hidden  places, 
under  the  fallen  twigs  and  rotting  leaves  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  forest,  spring  up  flowers  of 
sweet  fragrance. 

One  day  in  spring,  as  I  was  passing  on  some 
official  duties  through  a  small  town  in  one 
of  the  outlying  provinces  of  Eastern  Russia, 
through  the  dim  little  window  of  my  coach 
I  saw  standing  before  a  shop  in  the  square  a 
man  whose  face  struck  me  as  exceedingly 
familiar.  I  looked  attentively  at  the  man,  and 
to  my  great  delight  recognised  him  as  Elisei, 
Pasinkov's  servant. 

I  at  once  told  the  driver  to  stop,  jumped  out 
of  the  coach,  and  went  up  to  Elisei. 

'  Hullo,  friend  ! '  I  began,  with  difficulty  con- 
cealing my  excitement  ;  '  are  you  here  with 
your  master? ' 

'  Yes,    I  'm    with  my  master,'  he  responded 

174 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

slowly,  and  then  suddenly  cried  out :  '  Why,  sir, 
is  it  you  ?     I  didn't  know  you.' 

'  Are  you  here  with  Yakov  Ivanitch  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir,  with  him,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  whom 
else  would  I  be  with  ? ' 

'  Take  me  to  him  quickly.' 

'  To  be  sure  !  to  be  sure  !  This  way,  please, 
this  way  .  .  .  we're  stopping  here  at  the 
tavern.'  Elisei  led  me  across  the  square,  inces- 
santly repeating — '  Well,  now,  won't  Yakov 
Ivanitch  be  pleased  ! ' 

This  man,  of  Kalmuck  extraction,  and 
hideous,  even  savage  appearance,  but  the 
kindest-hearted  creature  and  by  no  means  a 
fool,  was  passionately  devoted  to  Pasinkov,  and 
had  been  his  servant  for  ten  years. 

'  Is  Yakov  Ivanitch  quite  well  ?  '  I  asked  him. 

Elisei  turned  his  dusky,  yellow  little  face  to 
me. 

'  Ah,  sir,  he 's  in  a  poor  way  ...  in  a  poor 
way,  sir  !  You  won't  know  his  honour.  .  .  . 
He 's  not  long  for  this  world,  I  'm  afraid. 
That 's  how  it  is  we  've  stopped  here,  or 
we  had  been  going  on  to  Odessa  for  his 
health.' 

'  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  ' 

'  From  Siberia,  sir.' 

'  From  Siberia  ? ' 

'Yes,  sir.      Yakov   Ivanitch   was   sent  to    a 

175 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

post  out  there.  It  was  there  his  honour  got  his 
wound.' 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  went  into  the  mili- 
tary service  ? ' 

'  Oh  no,  sir.     He  served  in  the  civil  service.' 

'  What  a  strange  thing  ! '  I  thought. 

Meanwhile  we  had  reached  the  tavern,  and 
Elisei  ran  on  in  front  to  announce  me.  During 
the  first  years  of  our  separation,  Pasinkov  and  I 
had  written  to  each  other  pretty  often,  but  his 
last  letter  had  reached  me  four  years  before, 
and  since  then  I  had  heard  nothing  of  him. 

'  Please  come  up,  sir ! '  Elisei  shouted  to  me 
from  the  staircase ;  '  Yakov  Ivanitch  is  very 
anxious  to  see  you.' 

I  ran  hurriedly  up  the  tottering  stairs,  went 
into  a  dark  little  room — and  my  heart  sank.  .  .  . 
On  a  narrow  bed,  under  a  fur  cloak,  pale  as  a 
corpse,  lay  Pasinkov,  and  he  was  stretching  out 
to  me  a  bare,  wasted  hand.  I  rushed  up  to 
him  and  embraced  him  passionately. 

'  Yasha  ! '  I  cried  at  last ;  '  what 's  wrong  with 
you  ? ' 

'  Nothing,'  he  answered  in  a  faint  voice ; 
*  I  'm  a  bit  feeble.  What  chance  brought  you 
here  ? ' 

I  sat  down  on  a  chair  beside  Pasinkov's  bed, 
and,  never  letting  his  hands  out  of  my  hands,  I 
began  gazing  into  his  face.     I  recognised  the 

176 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

features  I  loved  ;  the  expression  of  the  eyes 
and  the  smile  were  unchanged  ;  but  what  a 
wreck  illness  had  made  of  him  ! 

He  noticed  the  impression  he  was  making 
on  me. 

'  It 's  three  days  since  I  shaved,'  he  observed  ; 
'  and,  to  be  sure,  I  Ve  not  been  combed  and 
brushed,  but  except  for  that  ...  I  'm  not  so 
bad.' 

'  Tell  me,  please,  Yasha,'  I  began  ;  '  what 's 
this  Elisei  's  been  telling  me  .  .  .  you  were 
wounded  ? ' 

'  Ah !  yes,  it 's  quite  a  history,'  he  replied. 
'  I  '11  tell  you  it  later.  Yes,  I  was  wounded,  and 
only  fancy  what  by  ? — an  arrow.' 

'  An  arrow  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  an  arrow  ;  only  not  a  mythological  one, 
not  Cupid's  arrow,  but  a  real  arrow  of  very 
flexible  wood,  with  a  sharply-pointed  tip  at  one 
end.  ...  A  very  unpleasant  sensation  is  pro- 
duced by  such  an  arrow,  especially  when  it 
sticks  in  one's  lungs.' 

'  But  however  did  it  come  about?  upon  my 
word  !  .  .  .' 

'  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  happened.  You  know 
there  always  was  a  great  deal  of  the  absurd  in 
my  life.  Do  you  remember  my  comical  corre- 
spondence about  getting  my  passport  ?  Well,  I 
was  wounded  in  an  absurd  fashion  too.  And 
M  177 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  what  self-respecting 
person  in  our  enlightened  century  would  per- 
mit himself  to  be  wounded  by  an  arrow  ?  And 
not  accidentally — observe — not  at  sports  of  any 
sort,  but  in  a  battle.' 

'  But  you  still  don't  tell  me  .  .  .' 

'All  right,  wait  a  minute,'  he  interrupted.  'You 
know  that  soon  after  you  left  Petersburg  I  was 
transferred  to  Novgorod.     I  was  a  good  time  at 
Novgorod,  and  I  must  own  I  was  bored  there, 
though  even  there  I  came  across  one  creature. 
.  .  .'  (He  sighed.)  .  .   .    '  But  no  matter  about 
that  now ;   two  years  ago  I  got  a  capital  little 
berth,  some  way  off,  it's  true,  in  the   Irkutsk 
province,  but  what  of  that !    It  seems  as  though 
my  father  and  I  were  destined  from  birth  to 
visit  Siberia.      A    splendid    country,    Siberia ! 
Rich,  fertile — every  one  will  tell  you  the  same. 
I  liked  it  very  much  there.     The  natives  were 
put  under  my  rule  ;  they  're  a  harmless  lot  of 
people  ;  but  as  my  ill-luck  would  have  it,  they 
took  it  into  their  heads,  a  dozen  of  them,  not 
more,  to  smuggle  in  contraband  goods.     I  was 
sent  to  arrest  them.     Arrest  them   I   did,  but 
one  of  them,  crazy  he  must  have  been,  thought 
fit  to  defend  himself,  and  treated  me  to  the 
arrow.  ...  I  almost  died  of  it ;  however,  I  got 
all  right  again.     Now,  here  I  am  going  to  get 
completely  cured.  .  .  .    The  government — God 

178 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

give  them  all  good  health  ! — have  provided  the 
cash.' 

Pasinkov  let  his  head  fall  back  on  the  pillow, 
exhausted,  and  ceased  speaking.  A  faint  flush 
suffused  his  cheeks.     He  closed  his  eyes. 

'  He  can't  talk  much,'  Elisei,  who  had  not  left 
the  room,  murmured  in  an  undertone. 

A  silence  followed  ;  nothing  was  heard  but 
the  sick  man's  painful  breathing. 

'  But  here,'  he  went  on,  opening  his  eyes, 
'  I  've  been  stopping  a  fortnight  in  this  little 
town.  ...  I  caught  cold,  I  suppose.  The 
district  doctor  here  is  attending  me — you  '11 
see  him  ;  he  seems  to  know  his  business.  I'm 
awfully  glad  it  happened  so,  though,  or  how 
should  we  have  met  ? '  (And  he  took  my  hand. 
His  hand,  which  had  just  before  been  cold  as 
ice,  was  now  burning  hot.)  '  Tell  me  something 
about  yourself,'  he  began  again,  throwing  the 
cloak  back  off  his  chest.  '  You  and  I  haven't 
seen  each  other  since  God  knows  when.' 

I  hastened  to  carry  out  his  wish,  so  as  not 
to  let  him  talk,  and  started  giving  an  account 
of  myself  He  listened  to  me  at  first  with 
great  attention,  then  asked  for  drink,  and  then 
began  closing  his  eyes  again  and  turning  his 
head  restlessly  on  the  pillow.  I  advised  him 
to  have  a  little  nap,  adding  that  I  should  not 
go  on  further  till  he  was  well  again,  and  that 

179 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

I  should  establish  myself  in  a  room  beside  him. 
'  It's  very  nasty  here  .  .  .'  Pasinkov  was  begin- 
ning, but  I  stopped  his  mouth,  and  went  softly 
out.     Elisei  followed  me. 

'  What  is  it,  Elisei  ?  Why,  he 's  dying,  isn't 
he  ? '   I  questioned  the  faithful  servant. 

Elisei  simply  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand, 
and  turned  away. 

Having  dismissed  my  driver,  and  rapidly 
moved  my  things  into  the  next  room,  I  went 
to  see  whether  Pasinkov  was  asleep.  At  the 
door  I  ran  up  against  a  tall  man,  very  fat 
and  heavily  built.  His  face,  pock-marked  and 
puffy,  expressed  laziness — and  nothing  else  ; 
his  tiny  little  eyes  seemed,  as  it  were,  glued 
up,  and  his  lips  looked  polished,  as  though  he 
were  just  awake. 

'  Allow  me  to  ask,'  I  questioned  him,  '  are 
you  not  the  doctor  ?  ' 

The  fat  man  looked  at  me,  seeming  with  an 
effort  to  lift  his  overhanging  forehead  with  his 
eyebrows. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  he  responded  at  last. 

'  Do  me  the  favour,  Mr.  Doctor,  won't  you, 
please,  to  come  this  way  into  my  room  ?  Yakov 
Ivanitch,  is,  I  believe,  now  asleep.  I  am  a 
friend  of  his  and  should  like  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you  about  his  illness,  which  makes 
me  very  uneasy.' 

i8o 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'Very  good/  answered  the  doctor,  with  an 
expression  which  seemed  to  try  and  say,  '  Why 
talk  so  much  ?  I  'd  have  come  anyway/  and  he 
followed  me. 

'Tell  me,  please/  I  began,  as  soon  as  he  had 
dropped  into  a  chair,  '  is  my  friend's  condition 
Serious  ?     What  do  you  think  ?  ' 

'  Yes/  answered  the  fat  man,  tranquilly. 

'  And  ...  is  it  very  serious  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  it 's  serious.'  * 

'  So  that  he  may  .  .  .  even  die  ? ' 

'  He  may/ 

I  confess  I  looked  almost  with  hatred  at  the 
fat  man. 

'  Good  heavens  ! '  I  began  ;  '  we  must  take 
some  steps,  call  a  consultation,  or  something. 
You  know  we  can't  .  .  .  Mercy  on  us  ! ' 

'  A  consultation  ? — quite  possible  ;  why  not  ? 
It's  possible.     Call  in  Ivan  Efremitch.  ,  .  .' 

The  doctor  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  sighed 
continually.  His  stomach  heaved  perceptibly 
when  he  spoke,  as  it  were  emphasising  each 
word. 

'  Who  is  Ivan  Efremitch  ? ' 

'  The  parish  doctor.' 

'  Shouldn't  we  send  to  the  chief  town  of  the 
province  ?  What  do  you  think  ?  There  are  sure 
to  be  good  doctors  there.' 

'  Well !  you  might.' 

iSi 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  And  who  is  considered  the  best  doctor 
there  ? ' 

'  The  best  ?  There  was  a  doctor  Kolrabus 
there  .  .  .  only  I  fancy  he's  been  transferred 
somewhere  else.  Though  I  must  own  there 's 
no  need  really  to  send.' 

'  Why  so  ?  ' 

'  Even  the  best  doctor  will  be  of  no  use  to 
your  friend.' 

'  Why,  is  he  so  bad  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  he 's  run  down.' 

'  In  what  way  precisely  is  he  ill  ?  ' 

'  He  received  a  wound.  .  .  .  The  lungs  were 
affected  in  consequence  .  .  .  and  then  he's 
taken  cold  too,  and  fever  was  set  up  .  .  .  and 
so  on.  And  there  's  no  reserve  force ;  a  man 
can't  get  on,  you  know  yourself,  with  no  reserve 
force.' 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  while. 

'How  about  trying  homoeopathy ?  .  .  .'  said 
the  fat  man,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 

'  Homoeopathy  ?  Why,  you  're  an  allopath, 
aren't  you  ? ' 

'What  of  that?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
understand  homoeopathy?  I  understand  it  as 
well  as  the  other !  Why,  the  chemist  here 
among  us  treats  people  homoeopathically,  and 
he  has  no  learned  degree  whatever.' 

'  Oh,'  I  thought,  '  it 's  a  bad  look-out !  .  .  .' 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

'  No,  doctor,'  I  observed,  '  you  had  better  treat 
him  according  to  your  usual  method.' 

'  As  you  please.' 

The  fat  man  got  up  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

'  You  are  going  to  him  ?  '  I  asked. 

*  Yes,  I  must  have  a  look  at  him.' 

And  he  went  out. 

I  did  not  follow  him ;  to  see  him  at  the 
bedside  of  my  poor,  sick  friend  was  more  than 
I  could  stand.  I  called  my  man  and  gave  him 
orders  to  drive  at  once  to  the  chief  town  of 
the  province,  to  inquire  there  for  the  best 
doctor,  and  to  bring  him  without  fail.  There 
was  a  slight  noise  in  the  passage.  I  opened 
the  door  quickly. 

The  doctor  was  already  coming  out  of  Pasin- 
kov's  room. 

'  Well  ? '  I  questioned  him  in  a  whisper. 

'  It's  all  right.     I  have  prescribed  a  mixture.' 

'  I  have  decided,  doctor,  to  send  to  the  chief 
town.  I  have  no  doubt  of  your  skill,  but  as 
you  're  aware,  two  heads  are  better  than  one.' 

'  Well,  that 's  very  praiseworthy  ! '  responded 
the  fat  man,  and  he  began  to  descend  the  stair- 
case.    He  was  obviously  tired  of  me. 

I  went  in  to  Pasinkov. 

'  Have  you  seen  the  local  ^sculapius  ? '  he 
asked. 

'  Yes,'  I  answered. 

183 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  What  I  like  about  him,'  remarked  Pasinkov, 
*  is  his  astounding  composure.  A  doctor  ought 
to  be  phlegmatic,  oughtn't  he?  It's  so  en- 
couraging for  the  patient.' 

I  did  not,  of  course,  try  to  controvert 
this. 

Towards  the  evening,  Pasinkov,  contrary  to 
my  expectations,  seemed  better.  He  asked 
Elisei  to  set  the  samovar,  announced  that  he 
was  going  to  regale  me  with  tea,  and  drink 
a  small  cup  himself,  and  he  was  noticeably 
more  cheerful.  I  tried,  though,  not  to  let  him 
talk,  and  seeing  that  he  would  not  be  quiet, 
I  asked  him  if  he  would  like  me  to  read  him 
something.  '  Just  as  at  Winterkeller's — do  you 
remember?'  he  answered.  '  If  you  will,  I  shall 
be  delighted.  What  shall  we  read  ?  Look, 
there  are  my  books  in  the  window.'  .  .  . 

I  went  to  the  window  and  took  up  the  first 
book  that  my  hand  chanced  upon.  .  .  . 

'  What  is  it  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Lermontov.' 

'  Ah,  Lermontov  !  Excellent !  Pushkin  is 
greater,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember : 
"  Once  more  the  storm-clouds  gather  close 
Above  me  in  the  perfect  calm  "  .  .  .  or,  "  For 
the  last  time  thy  image  sweet  In  thought  I 
dare  caress."  Ah  !  marvellous  !  marvellous  ! 
But  Lermontov 's  fine  too.     Well,  I  '11  tell  you 

184 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

what,  dear  boy  :  you  take  the  book,  open  it  by 
chance,  and  read  what  you  find  ! ' 

I  opened  the  book,  and  was  disconcerted  ; 
I  had  chanced  upon  '  The  Last  Will.'  I  tried 
to  turn  over  the  page,  but  Pasinkov  noticed  my 
action  and  said  hurriedly  :  '  No,  no,  no,  read 
what  turned  up.' 

There  was  no  getting  out  of  it ;  I  read  '  The 
Last  Will'  1 

1  THE  LAST  WILL 

Alone  with  thee,  brother, 

I  would  wish  to  be  ; 

On  earth,  so  they  tell  me, 

I  have  not  long  to  stay, 

Soon  you  will  go  home  : 

See  that  ,   .   .  But  nay  !  for  my  fate 

To  speak  the  truth,  no  one 

Is  very  greatly  troubled. 

But  if  any  one  asks  .  .   . 

Well,  whoever  may  ask, 

Tell  them  that  through  the  breast 

I  was  shot  by  a  bullet  ; 

That  I  died  honourably  for  the  Tsar, 

That  our  doctors  are  not  much  good, 

And  that  to  my  native  land 

I  send  a  humble  greeting. 

My  father  and  mother,  hardly 
Will  you  find  living.   .   .   . 
I  '11  own  I  should  be  sorry 
That  they  should  grieve  for  me  ; 

185 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  Splendid  thing ! '  said  Pasinkov,  directly  I 
had  finished  the  last  verse.  '  Splendid  thing  ! 
But,  it 's  queer,'  he  added,  after  a  brief  pause, 
*  it 's  queer  you  should  have  chanced  just  on 
that.  .  .  .  Queer.' 

I  began  to  read  another  poem,  but  Pasinkov 
was  not  listening  to  me  ;  he  looked  away,  and 
twice  he  repeated  again  :  '  Queer  ! ' 
'^  I  let  the  book  drop  on  my  knees. 

'"There  is  a  girl,  their  neighbour,'"  he  whis- 
pered, and  turning  to  me  he  asked — '  I  say,  do 
you  remember  Sophia  Zlotnitsky  ?  ' 

I  turned  red. 

'  I  should  think  I  did  ! ' 

'  She  was  married,  I  suppose  ?  .  .  .' 

'  To  Asanov,  long,  long  ago.  I  wrote  to  you 
about  it' 


But  if  either  of  them  is  living, 

Say  I  am  lazy  about  writing, 

That  our  regiment  has  been  sent  forward, 

And  that  they  must  not  expect  me  home. 

There  is  a  girl,  their  neighbour.   .   .  . 
As  you  remember,  it 's  long 
Since  we  parted.  .   .   .  She  will  not 
Ask  for  me.  .   .  .  All  the  same, 
You  tell  her  all  the  truth, 
Don't  spare  her  empty  heart — 
Let  her  weep  a  little.   .   .   . 
It  will  not  hurt  her  much  ! 
l86 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  so  you  did.  Did  her 
father  forgive  her  in  the  end  ? ' 

'  He  forgave  her ;  but  he  would  not  receive 
Asanov.' 

*  Obstinate  old  fellow !  Well,  and  are  they 
supposed  to  be  happy  ?  ' 

'  I   don't  know,   really  ...   I   fancy  they  're 

happy.      They   live    in    the   country,    in  

province.       I  've    never   seen    them,   though    I 
have  been  through  their  parts.' 

'  And  have  they  any  children  ? ' 

'  I  think  so.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  Pasinkov  ?  .  .  .' 
I  began  questioningly. 

He  glanced  at  me. 

'  Confess — do  you  remember,  you  were  un- 
willing to  answer  my  question  at  the  time — 
did  you  tell  her  I  cared  for  her  ? ' 

'  I  told  her  everything,  the  whole  truth.  .  .  . 
I  always  told  her  the  truth.  To  be  hypocritical 
with  her  would  have  been  a  sin  ! ' 

Pasinkov  was  silent  for  a  while. 

'  Come,  tell  me,'  he  began  again  :  '  did  you 
soon  get  over  caring  for  her,  or  not  ? ' 

'  Not  very  soon,  but  I  got  over  it.  What 's 
the  good  of  sighing  in  vain  ?  ' 

Pasinkov  turned  over,  facing  me. 

'Well,  I,  brother,'  he  began — and  his  lips 
were  quivering — '  am  no  match  for  you  there  ; 
I  've  not  got  over  caring  for  her  to  this  day.' 

187 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  What ! '  I  cried  in  indescribable  amaze- 
ment ;  '  did  you  love  her  ?  ' 

'  I  loved  her/  said  Pasinkov  slowly,  and  he 
put  both  hands  behind  his  head.  '  How  I 
loved  her,  God  only  knows.  I  've  never  spoken 
of  it  to  any  one,  to  any  one  in  the  world,  and  I 
never  meant  to  .  .  .  but  there  !  "  On  earth,  so 
they  tell  me,  I  have  not  long  to  stay."  .  .  . 
What  does  it  matter  ?  ' 

Pasinkov's  unexpected  avowal  so  utterly 
astonished  me  that  I  could  positively  say  no- 
thing. I  could  only  wonder,  '  Is  it  possible  ? 
how  was  it  I  never  suspected  it  ? ' 

'Yes,'  he  went  on,  as  though  speaking  to 
himself,  '  I  loved  her.  I  never  ceased  to  love 
her  even  when  I  knew  her  heart  was  Asanov's. 
But  how  bitter  it  was  for  me  to  know  that !  If 
she  had  loved  you,  I  should  at  least  have 
rejoiced  for  you  ;  but  Asanov.  .  .  .  How  did 
he  make  her  care  for  him  ?  It  was  just  his 
luck !  And  change  her  feelings,  cease  to 
care,  she  could  not !  A  true  heart  does  not 
change.  .  .  .' 

I  recalled  Asanov's  visit  after  the  fatal 
dinner,  Pasinkov's  intervention,  and  I  could  not 
help  flinging  up  my  hands  in  astonishment. 

'  You  learnt  it  all  from  me,  poor  fellow ! '  I 
cried  ;  '  and  you  undertook  to  go  and  see  her 
then ! ' 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  Yes/  Pasinkov  began  again  ;  '  that  explana- 
tion with  her  ...  I  shall  never  forget  it.  It 
was  then  I  found  out,  then  I  realised  the 
meaning  of  the  word  I  had  chosen  for  myself 
long  before :  resignation.  But  still  she  has 
remained  my  constant  dream,  my  ideal.  .  .  . 
And  he 's  to  be  pitied  who  lives  without  an 
ideal ! ' 

I  looked  at  Pasinkov ;  his  eyes,  fastened,  as 
it  were,  on  the  distance,  shone  with  feverish 
brilliance. 

'  I  loved  her,'  he  went  on,  '  I  loved  her,  her, 
calm,  true,  unapproachable,  incorruptible  ;  when 
she  went  away,  I  was  almost  mad  with  grief. 
,  .  .  Since  then  I  have  never  cared  for  any 
one.'  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  turning,  he  pressed  his  face 
into  the  pillow,  and  began  quietly  weeping. 

I  jumped  up,  bent  over  him,  and  began 
trying  to  comfort  him.  .  .  . 

'  It 's  no  matter,'  he  said,  raising  his  head 
and  shaking  back  his  hair ;  '  it 's  nothing ;  I 
felt  a  little  bitter,  a  little  sorry  ...  for  myself, 
that  is.  .  .  .  But  it 's  all  no  matter.  It 's  all 
the  fault  of  those  verses.  Read  me  something 
else,  more  cheerful.' 

I  took  up  Lermontov  and  began  hurriedly 
turning  over  the  pages ;  but,  as  fate  would 
have  it,  I  kept  coming  across  poems  likely  to 

189 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

agitate  Pasinkov  again.     At  last   I  read   him 
'  The  Gifts  of  Terek.' 

'Jingling  rhetoric  ! '  said  my  poor  friend,  with 
the  tone  of  a  preceptor ;  '  but  there  are  fine 
passages.  Since  I  saw  you,  brother,  I  Ve  tried 
my  hand  at  poetry,  and  began  one  poem — 
"The  Cup  of  Life"— but  it  didn't  come  off! 
It 's  for  us,  brother,  to  appreciate,  not  to  create. 
.  .  .  But  I  'm  rather  tired  ;  I  '11  sleep  a  little — 
what  do  you  say?  What  a  splendid  thing 
sleep  is,  come  to  think  of  it !  All  our  life  's  a 
dream,  and  the  best  thing  in  it  is  dreaming 
too.' 

'  And  poetry  ?  '  I  queried. 

'  Poetry 's  a  dream  too,  but  a  dream  of 
paradise.' 

Pasinkov  closed  his  eyes. 

I  stood  for  a  little  while  at  his  bedside.  I 
did  not  think  he  would  get  to  sleep  quickly,  but 
soon  his  breathing  became  more  even  and  pro- 
longed. I  went  away  on  tiptoe,  turned  into 
my  own  room,  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa.  For 
a  long  while  I  mused  on  what  Pasinkov  had 
told  me,  recalled  many  things,  wondered  ;  at 
last  I  too  fell  asleep.  .  .  . 

Some  one  touched  me  ;  I  started  up ;  before 
me  stood  Elisei. 

'  Come  in  to  my  master,'  he  said. 

I  got  up  at  once. 

190 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  What 's  the  matter  with  him  ?  ' 
'  He's  delirious.' 

*  Delirious  ?  And  hasn't  it  ever  been  so 
before  with  him  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  he  was  delirious  last  night,  too  ;  only 
to-day  it  is  something  terrible.' 

I  went  to  Pasinkov's  room.  He  was  not 
lying  down,  but  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  whole 
body  bent  forward.  He  was  slowly  gesticu- 
lating with  his  hands,  smiling  and  talking, 
talking  all  the  time  in  a  weak,  hollow  voice, 
like  the  whispering  of  rushes.  His  eyes  were 
wandering.  The  gloomy  light  of  a  night-light, 
set  on  the  floor,  and  shaded  off  by  a  book,  lay, 
an  unmoving  patch  on  the  ceiling  ;  Pasinkov's 
face  seemed  paler  than  ever  in  the  half 
darkness. 

I  went  up  to  him,  called  him  by  his  name 
— he  did  not  answer.  I  began  listening  to 
his  whispering  :  he  was  talking  of  Siberia,  of  its 
forests.  From  time  to  time  there  was  sense 
in  his  ravings. 

*  What  trees  ! '  he  whispered  ;  '  right  up  to 
the  sky.  What  frost  on  them  !  Silver  .  .  . 
snowdrifts.  .  .  .  And  here  are  little  tracks  .  .  . 
that's  a  hare's  leaping,  that's  a  white  weasel. 
,  .  .  No,  it 's  my  father  running  with  my 
papers.  Here  he  is  !  .  .  .  Here  he  is  !  Must 
go  ;  the  moon  is  shining.     Must  go,  look  for 

191 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

my  papers.  .  .  .  Ah !  A  flower,  a  crimson 
flower — there  's  Sophia.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  bells  are 
ringing,  the  frost  is  crackling.  .  .  .  Ah,  no  ;  it 's 
the  stupid  bullfinches  hopping  in  the  bushes, 
whistling.  .  .  .  See,  the  redthroats !  Cold.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  here 's  Asanov.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  of  course, 
he  's  a  cannon,  a  copper  cannon,  and  his  gun- 
carriage  is  green.  That 's  how  it  is  he  's  liked. 
Is  it  a  star  has  fallen  ?  No,  it 's  an  arrow 
flying.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  quickly,  and  straight 
into  my  heart !  .  .  .  Who  shot  it  ?  You, 
Sonitchka  ? ' 

He  bent  his  head  and  began  muttering  dis- 
connected words.  I  glanced  at  Elisei  ;  he  was 
standing,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 
gazing  ruefully  at  his  master. 

'  Ah,  brother,  so  you  've  become  a  practical 
person,  eh  ?  '  he  asked  suddenly,  turning  upon 
me  such  a  clear,  such  a  fully  conscious  glance, 
that  I  could  not  help  starting  and  was  about 
to  reply,  but  he  went  on  at  once :  '  But  I, 
brother,  have  not  become  a  practical  person, 
I  haven't,  and  that 's  all  about  it !  A  dreamer 
I  was  born,  a  dreamer !  Dreaming,  dreaming. 
.  .  .  What  is  dreaming?  Sobakevitch's  peasant 
— that 's  dreaming.     Ugh  !  .  .  .' 

Almost  till  morning  Pasinkov  wandered  in 
delirium  ;  at  last  he  gradually  grew  quieter, 
sank  back  on  the  pillow,  and  dozed  off*.    I  went 

192 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

back  into  my  room.  Worn  out  by  the  cruel 
night,  I  slept  soundly. 

Elisei  again  waked  me. 

'  Ah,  sir  ! '  he  said  in  a  shaking  voice,  '  I  do 
believe  Yakov  Ivanitch  is  dying.  .  .  .' 

I  ran  in  to  Pasinkov.  He  was  lying  motion- 
less. In  the  light  of  the  coming  day  he 
looked  already  a  corpse.     He  recognised  me. 

'  Good-bye,'  he  whispered  ;  '  greet  her  for 
me,  I  'm  dying.  .  .  .' 

'  Yasha  ! '  I  cried  ;  '  nonsense  !  you  are 
going  to  live.  .  .  .' 

'  No,  no !  I  am  dying.  .  .  .  Here,  take  this 
as  a  keepsake.'  .  .  .  (He  pointed  to  his 
breast.)  .  .  . 

'  What 's  this  ?  '  he  began  suddenly  ;  '  look  : 
the  sea  ...  all  golden,  and  blue  isles  upon  it, 
marble  temples,  palm-trees,  incense.  .  .  .' 

He  ceased  speaking  .  .  .  stretched.  .  .  . 

Within  half  an  hour  he  was  no  more.  Elisei 
flung  himself  weeping  at  his  feet.  I  closed 
his  eyes. 

On  his  neck  there  was  a  little  silken  amulet 
on  a  black  cord.     I  took  it. 

Three  days  afterwards  he  was  buried.  .  .  . 
One  of  the  noblest  hearts  was  hidden  for  ever 
in  the  grave.  I  myself  threw  the  first  handful 
of  earth  upon  him. 

N  193 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 


III 

Another  year  and  a  half  passed  by.  Business 
obliged  me  to  visit  Moscow.  I  took  up  my 
quarters  in  one  of  the  good  hotels  there.  One 
day,  as  I  was  passing  along  the  corridor, 
I  glanced  at  the  black-board  with  the  list  of 
visitors  staying  in  the  hotel,  and  almost  cried 
out  aloud  with  astonishment.  Opposite  the 
number  12  stood,  distinctly  written  in  chalk, 
the  name,  Sophia  Nikolaevna  Asanova.  Of 
late  I  had  chanced  to  hear  a  good  deal  that  was 
bad  about  her  husband.  I  had  learned  that  he 
was  addicted  to  drink  and  to  gambling,  had 
ruined  himself,  and  was  generally  misconduct- 
ing himself.  His  wife  was  spoken  of  with 
respect.  ...  In  some  excitement  I  went  back 
to  my  room.  The  passion,  that  had  long  long 
ago  grown  cold,  began  as  it  were  to  stir  within 
my  heart,  and  it  throbbed.  I  resolved  to  go 
and  see  Sophia  Nikolaevna.  '  Such  a  long  time 
has  passed  since  the  day  we  parted,'  I  thought, 
'  she  has,  most  likely,  forgotten  everything  there 
was  between  us  in  those  days.' 

I  sent  Elisei,  whom  I  had  taken  into  my 
service  after  the  death  of  Pasinkov,  with  my 
visiting-card  to  her  door,  and  told  him  to  inquire 

194 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

whether  she  was  at  home,  and  whether  I  might 
see  her.  EHsei  quickly  came  back  and  an- 
nounced that  Sophia  Nikolaevna  was  at  home 
and  would  see  me. 

I  went  at  once  to  Sophia  Nikolaevna.  When 
I  went  in,  she  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  taking  leave  of  a  tall  stout  gentleman. 

'  As  you  like,'  he  was  saying  in  a  rich,  mellow 
voice  ;  'he  is  not  a  harmless  person,  he 's  a 
useless  person ;  and  every  useless  person  in 
a  well-ordered  society  is  harmful,  harmful, 
harmful ! ' 

With  those  words  the  tall  gentleman  went 
out.     Sophia  Nikolaevna  turned  to  me. 

'  How  long  it  is  since  we  met ! '  she  said. 
'  Sit  down,  please.  .  .  .' 

We  sat  down.  I  looked  at  her.  .  .  .  To  see 
again  after  long  absence  the  features  of  a 
face  once  dear,  perhaps  beloved,  to  recognise 
them,  and  not  recognise  them,  as  though 
across  the  old,  unforgotten  countenance  a  new 
oae,  like,  but  strange,  were  looking  out  at  one ; 
instantaneously,  almost  unconsciously,  to  note 
the  traces  time  has  laid  upon  it ; — all  this  is 
rather  melancholy.  '  I  too  must  have  changed 
in  the  same  way,'  each  is  inwardly  thinking. . . . 

Sophia  Nikolaevna  did  not,  however,  look 
much  older ;  though,  when  I  had  seen  her  last, 
she  was  sixteen,  and  that  was  nine  years  ago. 

195 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

Her  features  had  become  still  more  correct  and 
severe ;  as  of  old,  they  expressed  sincerity  of 
feeling  and  firmness;  but  in  place  of  her  former 
serenity,  a  sort  of  secret  ache  and  anxiety  could 
be  discerned  in  them.  Her  eyes  had  grown 
deeper  and  darker.  She  had  begun  to  show  a 
likeness  to  her  mother.  .  .  . 

Sophia  Nikolaevna  was  the  first  to  begin  the 
conversation. 

'  We  are  both  changed,'  she  began.  '  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  ' 

*  I  've  been  a  rolling  stone,'  I  answered.  '  And 
have  you  been  living  in  the  country  all  the 
while  ? ' 

'  For  the  most  part  I  've  been  in  the  country. 
I  'm  only  here  now  for  a  little  time.' 

'  How  are  your  parents  ? ' 

'  My  mother  is  dead,  but  my  father  is  still  in 
Petersburg ;  my  brother 's  in  the  service  ;  Varia 
lives  with  him.' 

'  And  your  husband  ? ' 

'  My  husband,'  she  said  in  a  rather  hurried 
voice — 'he's  just  now  in  South  Russia  for  the 
horse  fairs.  He  was  always  very  fond  of  horses, 
you  know,  and  he  has  started  stud  stables  .  .  . 
and  so,  on  that  account  ...  he 's  buying  horses 
now.' 

At  that  instant  there  walked  into  the  room  a 
little  girl  of  eight  years  old,  with  her  hair  in  a 

196 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

pigtail,  with  a  very  keen  and  lively  little  face, 
and  large  dark  grey  eyes.  On  seeing  me,  she 
at  once  drew  back  her  little  foot,  dropped  a 
hasty  curtsey,  and  went  up  to  Sophia  Nikola- 
evna. 

'This  is  my  little  daughter;  let  me  introduce 
her  to  you,'  said  Sophia  Nikolaevna,  putting 
one  finger  under  the  little  girl's  round  chin  ; 
'  she  would  not  stop  at  home — she  persuaded 
me  to  bring  her  with  me.' 

The  little  girl  scanned  me  with  her  rapid 
glance  and  faintly  dropped  her  eyelids. 

'  She  is  a  capital  little  person,'  Sophia  Nikola- 
evna went  on  :  '  there 's  nothing  she 's  afraid  of 
And  she 's  good  at  her  lessons  ;  I  must  say  that 
for  her.' 

'Comment  se  nomme  monsieur?'  the  little 
girl  asked  in  an  undertone,  bending  over  to  her 
mother. 

Sophia  Nikolaevna  mentioned  my  name. 
The  little  girl  glanced  at  me  again. 

*  What  is  your  name  ? '  I  asked  her. 

'  My  name  is  Lidia,'  answered  the  little  girl, 
looking  me  boldly  in  the  face. 

'  I  expect  they  spoil  you,'  I  observed. 

'  Who  spoil  me  ?  ' 

*Who?  everyone,  I  expect;  your  parents  to 
begin  with.' 

(The  little  girl  looked,  without  a  word,  at  her 

197 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

mother.)  '  I  can  fancy  Konstantin  Alexandritch,' 
I  was  going  on  .  .  . 

'Yes,  yes/  Sophia  Nikolaevna  interposed, 
while  her  little  daughter  kept  her  attentive 
eyes  fastened  upon  her ;  '  my  husband,  of  course 
— he  is  very  fond  of  children.  .  .  .' 

A  strange  expression  flitted  across  Lidia's 
clever  little  face.  There  was  a  slight  pout 
about  her  lips  ;  she  hung  her  head. 

'  Tell  me,'  Sophia  Nikolaevna  added  hurriedly; 
'you  are  here  on  business,  I  expect?' 

'Yes,  I  am  here  on  business.  .  .  .  And  are 
you  too  ? ' 

'  Yes.  ...  In  my  husband's  absence,  you 
understand,  I  'm  obliged  to  look  after  business 
matters.' 

'  Maman  ! '  Lidia  was  beginning. 

'  Quoi,  mon  enfant  ? ' 

'  Non — rien  .  .  .  Je  te  dirai  apres.' 

Sophia  Nikolaevna  smiled  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

'  Tell  me,  please,'  Sophia  Nikolaevna  began 
again ;  '  do  you  remember,  you  had  a  friend  .  .  . 
what  was  his  name?  he  had  such  a  good- 
natured  face  ...  he  was  always  reading  poetry  ; 
such  an  enthusiastic ' 

'  Not  Pasinkov  ? ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  Pasinkov  .  .  .  where  is  he  now  ?  ' 

*  He  is  dead.' 

198 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  Dead  ? '  repeated  Sophia  Nikolaevna ;  '  what 
a  pity !  .  .  .' 

'  Have  I  seen  him  ? '  the  little  girl  asked  in  a 
hurried  whisper. 

'  No,  Lidia,  you  Ve  never  seen  him. — What  a 
pity  ! '  repeated  Sophia  Nikolaevna. 

'  You  regret  him  .  .  .'  I  began  ;  '  what  if  you 
had  known  him,  as  I  knew  him  ?  .  .  .  But,  why 
did  you  speak  of  him,  may  I  ask  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .'  (Sophia  Nikolaevna 
dropped  her  eyes.)  *Lidia,'  she  added ;  '  run 
away  to  your  nurse.' 

'  You  '11  call  me  when  I  may  come  back  ? ' 
asked  the  little  girl. 

'  Yes.' 

The  little  girl  went  away.  Sophia  Nikolaevna 
turned  to  me. 

'  Tell  me,  please,  all  you  know  about  Pasinkov.' 

I  began  telling  her  his  story.  I  sketched  in 
brief  words  the  whole  life  of  my  friend;  tried, 
as  far  as  I  was  able,  to  give  an  idea  of  his  soul ; 
described  his  last  meeting  with  me  and  his  end. 

'  And  a  man  like  that,'  I  cried,  as  I  finished 
my  story — 'has  left  us,  unnoticed,  almost  un- 
appreciated !  But  that 's  no  great  loss.  What 
is  the  use  of  man's  appreciation  ?  What  pains 
me,  what  wounds  me,  is  that  such  a  man,  with 
such  a  loving  and  devoted  heart,  is  dead  without 
having  once  known  the  bliss  of  love  returned, 

199 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

without  having  awakened  interest  in  one 
woman's  heart  worthy  of  him !  .  .  .  Such  as 
I  may  well  know  nothing  of  such  happiness  ; 
we  don't  deserve  it ;  but  Pasinkov  !  .  .  .  And  yet 
haven't  I  met  thousands  of  men  in  my  life,  who 
could  not  compare  with  him  in  any  respect,  who 
were  loved  ?  Must  one  believe  that  some  faults 
in  a  man — -conceit,  for  instance,  or  frivolity — 
are  essential  to  gain  a  woman's  devotion  ?  Or 
does  love  fear  perfection,  the  perfection  possible 
on  earth,  as  something  strange  and  terrible  ? ' 

Sophia  Nikolaevna  heard  me  to  the  end, 
without  taking  her  stern,  searching  eyes  off  me, 
without  moving  her  lips  ;  only  her  eyebrows 
contracted  from  time  to  time. 

*  What  makes  you  suppose,'  she  observed 
after  a  brief  silence,  '  that  no  woman  ever 
loved  your  friend  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  know  it,  know  it  for  a  fact.' 

Sophia  Nikolaevna  seemed  about  to  say 
something,  but  she  stopped.  She  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  herself. 

'You  are  mistaken,'  she  began  at  last; 
'  I  know  a  woman  who  loved  your  dead  friend 
passionately;  she  loves  him  and  remembers  him 
to  this  day  .  .  .  and  the  news  of  his  death  will 
be  a  fearful  blow  for  her.' 

'  Who  is  this  woman  ?  may  I  know  ?  ' 

'  My  sister,  Varia.' 

200 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

'  Varvara  Nikolaevna  ! '  I  cried  in  amazement. 

'Yes.' 

'  What  ?  Varvara  Nikolaevna  ?  '  I  repeated, 
'that  .  .  .' 

'  I  will  finish  your  sentence/  Sophia  Nikola- 
evna took  me  up  ;  '  that  girl  you  thought  so 
cold,  so  listless  and  indifferent,  loved  your 
friend ;  that  is  why  she  has  never  married  and 
never  will  marry.  Till  this  day  no  one  has 
known  of  this  but  me ;  Varia  would  die  before 
she  would  betray  her  secret.  In  our  family  we 
know  how  to  suffer  in  silence.' 

I  looked  long  and  intently  at  Sophia  Nikola- 
evna, involuntarily  pondering  on  the  bitter  sig- 
nificance of  her  last  words. 

'  You  have  surprised  me,'  I  observed  at  last. 
*  But  do  you  know,  Sophia  Nikolaevna,  if 
I  were  not  afraid  of  recalling  disagreeable 
memories,  I  might  surprise  you  too.  .  .  .' 

'  I  don't  understand  you,'  she  rejoined  slowly, 
and  with  some  embarrassment. 

'  You  certainly  don't  understand  me,'  I  said, 
hastily  getting  up  ;  '  and  so  allow  me,  instead  of 
verbal  explanation,  to  send  you  something  .  .  .' 

*  But  what  is  it  ? '  she  inquired. 

'  Don't  be  alarmed,  Sophia  Nikolaevna,  it 's 
nothing  to  do  with  me.' 

I  bowed,  and  went  back  to  my  room,  took 
out  the  little  silken  bag  I  had  taken  off  Pasinkov, 

20I 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

and  sent   it   to    Sophia   Nikolaevna  with   the 
following  note — 

*  This  my  friend  wore  always  on  his  breast 
and  died  with  it  on  him.  In  it  is  the  only  note 
you  ever  wrote  him,  quite  insignificant  in  its 
contents  ;  you  can  read  it.  He  wore  it  because 
he  loved  you  passionately ;  he  confessed  it  to 
me  only  the  day  before  his  death.  Now,  when 
he  is  dead,  why  should  you  not  know  that  his 
heart  too  was  yours  ?  ' 

Elisei  returned  quickly  and  brought  me  back 
the  relic. 

'  Well  ? '  I  queried  ;  '  didn't  she  send  any 
message  ? ' 

'No.' 

I  was  silent  for  a  little. 

'  Did  she  read  my  note  ?  ' 

'  No  doubt  she  did  ;  the  maid  took  it  to  her.' 

'  Unapproachable,'  I  thought,  remembering 
Pasinkov's  last  words.  '  All  right,  you  can  go,' 
I  said  aloud. 

Elisei  smiled  somewhat  queerly  and  did  not 
go. 

'  There 's  a  girl  .  .  . '  he  began,  '  here  to  see 
you.' 

'  What  girl  ?  ' 

Elisei  hesitated. 

'  Didn't  my  master  say  anything  to  you  ? ' 

'  No.  .  .  .  What  is  it  ? ' 

202 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

'  When  my  master  was  in  Novgorod/  he 
went  on,  fingering  the  door  -  post,  '  he  made 
acquaintance,  so  to  say,  with  a  girl.  So  here 
is  this  girl,  wants  to  see  you.  I  met  her  the 
other  day  in  the  street.  I  said  to  her,  "  Come 
along ;  if  the  master  allows  it,  I  '11  let  you  see 
him." 

'  Ask  her  in,  ask  her  in,  of  course.  But  .  .  . 
what  is  she  like  ? ' 

'An  ordinary  girl  .  .  .  working  class  .  .  . 
Russian.' 

'  Did  Yakov  Ivanitch  care  for  her  ? ' 

'Well,  yes  ...  he  was  fond  of  her.  And 
she  .  .  .  when  she  heard  my  master  was  dead, 
she  was  terribly  upset.  She's  a  good  sort  of 
girl.' 

'  Ask  her  in,  ask  her  in.' 

Elisei  went  out  and  at  once  came  back.  He 
was  followed  by  a  girl  in  a  striped  cotton  gown, 
with  a  dark  kerchief  on  her  head,  that  half  hid 
her  face.  On  seeing  me,  she  was  much  taken 
aback  and  turned  away. 

'  What 's  the  matter  ? '  Elisei  said  to  her  ;  '  go 
on,  don't  be  afraid.' 

I  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  by  the  hand. 

'  What  is  your  name  ?  '  I  asked  her. 

'  Masha,'  she  replied  in  a  soft  voice,  stealing 
a  glance  at  me. 

She  looked  about  two-  or  three-and-twenty  ; 

20.^ 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

she  had  a  round,  rather  simple- looking,  but 
pleasant  face,  soft  cheeks,  mild  blue  eyes,  and 
very  pretty  and  clean  little  hands.  She  was 
tidily  dressed. 

'  You  knew  Yakov  Ivanitch  ? '  I  pursued. 

*  I  used  to  know  him,'  she  said,  tugging  at 
the  ends  of  her  kerchief,  and  the  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes. 

I  asked  her  to  sit  down. 

She  sat  down  at  once  on  the  edge  of  a  chair, 
without  any  affectation  of  ceremony.  Elisei 
went  out. 

'  You  became  acquainted  with  him  in  Nov- 
gorod ? ' 

'Yes,  in  Novgorod,'  she  answered,  clasping 
her  hands  under  her  kerchief  '  I  only  heard 
the  day  before  yesterday,  from  Elisei  Timo- 
feitch,  of  his  death.  Yakov  Ivanitch,  when  he 
went  away  to  Siberia,  promised  to  write  to  me, 
and  twice  he  did  write,  and  then  he  wrote  no 
more.  I  would  have  followed  him  out  to  Siberia, 
but  he  didn't  wish  it.' 

*  Have  you  relations  in  Novgorod  ?  ' 
'Yes.' 

'  Did  you  live  with  them  ?  ' 

'  I  used  to  live  with  mother  and  my  married 
sister ;  but  afterwards  mother  was  cross  with 
me,  and  my  sister  was  crowded  up,  too ;  she 
has   a   lot  of  children  :    and   so   I   moved.     I 

204 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 


always  rested  my  hopes  on  Yakov  Ivanitch, 
and  longed  for  nothing  but  to  see  him,  and  he 
was  always  good  to  me — you  can  ask  Elisei 
Timofeitch.' 

Masha  paused. 

'  I  have  his  letters,'  she  went  on.  '  Here,  look.' 
She  took  several  letters  out  of  her  pocket,  and 
handed  them  to  me.     '  Read  them,'  she  added. 

I  opened  one  letter  and  recognised  Pasinkov's 
hand. 

'  Dear  Masha ! '  (he  wrote  in  large,  distinct 
letters)  '  you  leaned  your  little  head  against  my 
head  yesterday,  and  when  I  asked  why  you  do 
so,  you  told  me — "  I  want  to  hear  what  you  are 
thinking."  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking ; 
I  was  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  for  Masha 
to  learn  to  read  and  write !  She  could  make 
out  this  letter  .  .  .' 

Masha  glanced  at  the  letter. 

'That  he  wrote  me  in  Novgorod,'  she  ob- 
served, 'when  he  was  just  going  to  teach  me 
to  read.  Look  at  the  others.  There 's  one 
from  Siberia.     Here,  read  this.' 

I  read  the  letters.  They  were  very  affec- 
tionate, even  tender.  In  one  of  them,  the  first 
one  from  Siberia,  Pasinkov  called  Masha  his 
best  friend,  promised  to  send  her  the  money 
for  the  journey  to  Siberia,  and  ended  with  the 
following   words  — '  I    kiss    your    pretty   little 

205 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

hands  ;  the  girls  here  have  not  hands  Hke 
yours  ;  and  their  heads  are  no  match  for  yours, 
nor  their  hearts  either.  .  .  .  Read  the  books 
I  gave  you,  and  think  of  me,  and  I  '11  not  forget 
you.  You  are  the  only,  only  girl  that  ever 
cared  for  me ;  and  so  I  want  to  belong  only  to 
you.  .  .  .' 

'  I  see  he  was  very  much  attached  to  you,'  I 
said,  giving  the  letters  back  to  her. 

'  He  was  very  fond  of  me,'  replied  Masha, 
putting  the  letters  carefully  into  her  pocket, 
and  the  tears  flowed  slowly  down  her  cheeks. 
'  I  always  trusted  in  him ;  if  the  Lord  had 
vouchsafed  him  long  life,  he  would  not  have 
abandoned  me.  God  grant  him  His  heavenly 
peace ! '  .  .  . 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  corner  of  her 
kerchief 

'  Where  are  you  living  now  ?  '  I  inquired. 

'  I  'm  here  now,  in  Moscow ;  I  came  here 
with  my  mistress,  but  now  I  'm  out  of  a  place. 
I  did  go  to  Yakov  Ivanitch's  aunt,  but  she 
is  very  poor  herself.  Yakov  Ivanitch  used 
often  to  talk  of  you,'  she  added,  getting  up 
and  bowing ;  '  he  always  loved  you  and  thought 
of  you.  I  met  Elisei  Timofeitch  the  day  before 
yesterday,  and  wondered  whether  you  wouldn't 
be  willing  to  assist  me,  as  I  'm  out  of  a  place 

just  now.  .  .  .' 

206 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

'  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  Maria  ...  let 
me  ask,  what 's  your  name  from  your  father  ?  ' 

'Petrovna,'  answered  Masha,  and  she  cast 
down  her  eyes. 

'  I  will  do  anything  for  you  I  can,  Maria 
Petrovna,'  I  continued  ;  '  I  am  only  sorry  that 
I  am  a  visitor  here,  and  know  few  good 
families.' 

Masha  sighed. 

'  If  I  could  get  a  situation  of  some  sort  ...  I 
can't  cut  out,  but  I  can  sew,  so  I  'm  always 
doing  sewing  .  .  .  and  I  can  look  after  children 
too.' 

*  Give  her  money,'  I  thought ;  '  but  how 's  one 
to  do  it  ? ' 

'  Listen,  Maria  Petrovna,'  I  began,  not  with- 
out faltering ;  '  you  must,  please,  excuse  me, 
but  you  know  from  Pasinkov's  own  words  what 
a  friend  of  his  I  was  .  .  .  won't  you  allow  me 
to  offer  you — for  the  immediate  present — a 
small  sum  ?'  .  .  . 

Masha  glanced  at  me. 

'  What  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  Aren't  you  in  want  of  money  ? '  I  said. 

Masha  flushed  all  over  and  hung  her  head. 

'  What  do  I  want  with  money  ? '  she  mur- 
mured ;  '  better  get  me  a  situation.' 

'  I  will  try  to  get  you  a  situation,  but  I  can't 
answer  for  it  for  certain  ;  but  you  ought  not  to 

207 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

make  any  scruple,  really  .  .  .  I  'm  not  like  a 
stranger  to  you,  you  know.  .  .  .  Accept  this 
from  me,  in  memory  of  our  friend  .  .  .' 

I  turned  away,  hurriedly  pulled  a  few  notes 
out  of  my  pocket-book,  and  handed  them  to 
her. 

Masha  was  standing  motionless,  her  head 
still  more  downcast. 

'  Take  it,'  I  persisted. 

She  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  me,  looked  me 
in  the  face  mournfully,  slowly  drew  her  pale 
hand  from  under  her  kerchief  and  held  it  out 
to  me. 

I  laid  the  notes  in  her  cold  fingers.  Without 
a  word,  she  hid  the  hand  again  under  her 
kerchief,  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

'  In  future,  Maria  Petrovna,'  I  resumed,  '  if 
you  should  be  in  want  of  anything,  please 
apply  directly  to  me.  I  will  give  you  my 
address.' 

'  I  humbly  thank  you,'  she  said,  and  after  a 
short  pause  she  added :  '  He  did  not  speak  to 
you  of  me  ?  ' 

'  I  only  met  him  the  day  before  his  death, 
Maria  Petrovna.  But  I  'm  not  sure  ...  I 
believe  he  did  say  something.' 

Masha  passed  her  hand  over  her  hair,  pressed 
her  cheek  lightly,  thought  a  moment,  and  say- 
ing *  Good-bye,'  walked  out  of  the  room. 

208 


YAKOV  PASINKOV 

I  sat  at  the  table  and  fell  into  bitter  musings. 
This  Masha,  her  relations  with  Pasinkov,  his 
letters,  the  hidden  love  of  Sophia  Nikolaevna's 
sister  for  him.  .  .  .  '  Poor  fellow  !  poor  fellow  ! ' 
I  whispered,  with  a  catching  in  my  breath.  I 
thought  of  all  Pasinkov's  life,  his  childhood,  his 
youth,  Fraiilein  Frederike  .  .  .  '  Well,'  I  thought, 
'  much  fate  gave  to  thee !  much  cause  for 
joy!' 

Next  day  I  went  again  to  see  Sophia  Nikola- 
evna.  I  was  kept  waiting  in  the  ante  -  room, 
and  when  I  entered,  Lidia  was  already  seated 
by  her  mother.  I  understood  that  Sophia 
Nikolaevna  did  not  wish  to  renew  the  con- 
versation of  the  previous  day. 

We  began  to  talk — I  really  don't  remember 
what  about — about  the  news  of  the  town,  public 
affairs  .  .  .  Lidia  often  put  in  her  little  word, 
and  looked  slily  at  me.  An  amusing  air  of  im- 
portance had  suddenly  become  apparent  on  her 
mobile  little  visage.  .  .  .  The  clever  little  girl 
must  have  guessed  that  her  mother  had  in- 
tentionally stationed  her  at  her  side. 

I  got  up  and  began  taking  leave.  Sophia 
Nikolaevna  conducted  me  to  the  door. 

'  I  made  you  no  answer  yesterday,'  she  said, 

standing  still  in  the  doorway ;    '  and,  indeed, 

what  answer  was  there  to  make  ?    Our  life  is  not 

in  our  own  hands  ;   but  we  all  have  one  anchor, 

o  209 


YAKOV   PASINKOV 

from  which  one  can  never,  without  one's  own 
will,  be  torn — a  sense  of  duty.' 

Without  a  word  I  bowed  my  head  in  sign  of 
assent,  and  parted  from  the  youthful  Puritan. 

All  that  evening  I  stayed  at  home,  but  I  did 
not  think  of  her ;  I  kept  thinking  and  thinking 
of  my  dear,  never-to-be-forgotten  Pasinkov — 
the  last  of  the  idealists  ;  and  emotions,  mourn- 
ful and  tender,  pierced  with  sweet  anguish  into 
my  soul,  rousing  echoes  on  the  strings  of  a 
heart  not  yet  quite  grown  old.  .  .  .  Peace  to 
your  ashes,  unpractical  man,  simple-hearted 
idealist !  and  God  grant  to  all  practical  men — 
to  whom  you  were  always  incomprehensible, 
and  who,  perhaps,  will  laugh  even  now  over 
you  in  the  grave — God  grant  to  them  to  ex- 
perience even  a  hundredth  part  of  those  pure 
delights  in  which,  in  spite  of  fate  and  men,  your 
poor  and  unambitious  life  was  so  rich  ! 

1855. 


210 


ANDREI    KOLOSOV 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

In  a  small,  decently  furnished  room  several 
young  men  were  sitting  before  the  fire.  The 
winter  evening  was  only  just  beginning ;  the 
samovar  was  boiling  on  the  table,  the  conversa- 
tion had  hardly  taken  a  definite  turn,  but  passed 
lightly  from  one  subject  to  another.  They 
began  discussing  exceptional  people,  and  in 
what  way  they  differed  from  ordinary  people. 
Every  one  expounded  his  views  to  the  best 
of  his  abilities ;  they  raised  their  voices  and 
began  to  be  noisy.  A  small,  pale  man,  after 
listening  long  to  the  disquisitions  of  his  com- 
panions, sipping  tea  and  smoking  a  cigar  the 
while,  suddenly  got  up  and  addressed  us  all 
(L  was  one  of  the  disputants)  in  the  following 
words  : — 

'  Gentlemen !  all  your  profound  remarks  are 
excellent  in  their  own  way,  but  unprofitable- 
Every  one,  as  usual,  hears  his  opponent's  views, 
and  every  one  retains  his  own  convictions.  But 
it 's  not  the  first  time  we  have  met,  nor  the  first 
time  we  have  argued,  and  so  we  have  probably 

213 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

by  now  had  ample  opportunity  for  expressing 
our  own  views  and  learning  those  of  others. 
Why,  then,  do  you  take  so  much  trouble  ? ' 

Uttering  these  words,  the  small  man  care- 
lessly flicked  the  ash  off  his  cigar  into  the 
fireplace,  dropped  his  eyelids,  and  smiled 
serenely.     We  all  ceased  speaking. 

'  Well,  what  are  we  to  do  then,  according  to 
you  ? '  said  one  of  us ;  '  play  cards,  or  what  ? 
go  to  sleep  ?  break  up  and  go  home  ?  ' 

'  Playing  cards  is  agreeable,  and  sleep 's 
always  salutary,'  retorted  the  small  man  ;  '  but 
it 's  early  yet  to  break  up  and  go  home.  You 
didn't  understand  me,  though.  Listen  :  I  pro- 
pose, if  it  comes  to  that,  that  each  of  you  should 
describe  some  exceptional  personality,  tell  us 
of  any  meeting  you  may  have  had  with  any 
remarkable  man.  I  can  assure  you  even  the 
feeblest  description  has  far  more  sense  in  it 
than  the  finest  argument.' 

We  pondered. 

'  It 's  a  strange  thing,'  observed  one  of  us, 
an  inveterate  jester ;  '  except  myself  I  don't 
know  a  single  exceptional  person,  and  with 
my  life  you  are  all,  I  fancy,  familiar  already. 
However,  if  you  insist ' 

'  No  ! '  cried  another,  '  we  don't !  But,  I  tell 
you  what,'  he  added,  addressing  the  small  man, 
'  you  begin.     You  have  put  a  stopper  on  all  of 

214 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

US,  you  're  the  person  to  fill  the  gap.  Only 
mind,  if  we  don't  care  for  your  story,  we  shall 
hiss  you.' 

'If  you  like,'  answered  the  small  man. 

He  stood  close  to  the  fire  ;  we  sat  round  him 
and  kept  quiet  The  small  man  looked  at  all 
of  us,  glanced  at  the  ceiling,  and  began  as 
follows  : — 

'  Ten  years  ago,  my  dear  friends,  I  was  a 
student  at  Moscow.  My  father,  a  virtuous 
landowner  of  the  steppes,  had  handed  me 
over  to  a  retired  German  professor,  who,  for 
a  hundred  roubles  a  month,  undertook  to  lodge 
and  board  me,  and  to  watch  over  my  morals. 
This  German  was  the  fortunate  possessor  of 
an  exceedingly  solemn  and  decorous  manner ; 
at  first  I  went  in  considerable  awe  of  him.  But 
on  returning  home  one  evening,  I  saw,  with 
indescribable  emotion,  my  preceptor  sitting 
with  three  or  four  companions  at  a  round 
table,  on  which  there  stood  a  fair-sized  collec- 
tion of  empty  bottles  and  half-full  glasses.  On 
seeing  me,  my  revered  preceptor  got  up,  and, 
waving  his  arms  and  stammering,  presented  me 
to  the  honourable  company,  who  all  promptly 
offered  me  a  glass  of  punch.  This  agreeable 
spectacle  had  a  most  illuminating  effect  on 
my  intelligence  ;  my  future  rose  before  me  in 
the   most   seductive  images.     And,  as  a  fact, 

215 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

from  that  memorable  day  I  enjoyed  unbounded 
freedom,  and  all  but  worried  my  preceptor  to 
death.  He  had  a  wife  who  always  smelt  of 
smoke  and  pickled  cucumbers ;  she  was  still 
youngish,  but  had  not  a  single  front  tooth  in 
her  head.  All  German  women,  as  we  know, 
very  quickly  lose  those  indispensable  ornaments 
of  the  human  frame.  I  mention  her,  solely 
because  she  fell  passionately  in  love  with  me 
and  fed  me  almost  into  my  grave.' 

'To  the  point,  to  the  point,'  we  shouted. 
'  Surely  it 's  not  your  own  adventures  you  're 
going  to  tell  us  ?  ' 

'  No,  gentlemen ! '  the  small  man  replied 
composedly.  *  I  am  an  ordinary  mortal.  And 
so  I  lived  at  my  German's,  as  the  saying  is, 
in  clover.  I  did  not  attend  lectures  with  too 
much  assiduity,  while  at  home  I  did  positively 
nothing.  In  a  very  short  time,  I  had  got  to 
know  all  my  comrades  and  was  on  intimate 
terms  with  all  of  them.  Among  my  new 
friends  was  one  rather  decent  and  good-natured 
fellow,  the  son  of  a  town  provost  on  the  retired 
list.  His  name  was  Bobov.  This  Bobov  got 
in  the  habit  of  coming  to  see  me,  and  seemed 
to  like  me.  I,  too  ...  do  you  know,  I  didn't 
like  him,  nor  dislike  him  ;  I  was  more  or  less 
indifferent.  ...  I  must  tell  I  hadn't  in  all 
Moscow  a  single  relation,  except  an  old  uncle, 

216 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

who  used  sometimes  to  ask  me  for  money. 
I  never  went  anywhere,  and  was  particularly 
afraid  of  women  ;  I  also  avoided  all  acquaint- 
ance with  the  parents  of  my  college  friends, 
ever  after  one  such  parent  (in  my  presence) 
pulled  his  son's  hair — because  a  button  was 
off  his  uniform,  while  at  the  very  time  I  hadn't 
more  than  six  buttons  on  my  whole  coat.  In 
comparison  with  many  of  my  comrades,  I 
passed  for  being  a  person  of  wealth  ;  my  father 
used  to  send  me  every  now  and  then  small 
packets  of  faded  blue  notes,  and  consequently 
I  not  only  enjoyed  a  position  of  independence, 
but  I  was  continually  surrounded  by  toadies 
and  flatterers.  .  .  .  What  am  I  saying? — why, 
for  that  matter,  so  was  my  bobtail  dog  Ar- 
mishka,  who,  in  spite  of  his  setter  pedigree, 
was  so  frightened  of  a  shot,  that  the  very  sight 
of  a  gun  reduced  him  to  indescribable  misery. 
Like  every  young  man,  however,  I  was  not 
without  that  vague  inward  fermentation  which 
usually,  after  bringing  forth  a  dozen  more  or 
less  shapeless  poems,  passes  off  in  a  peaceful 
and  propitious  manner.  I  wanted  something, 
strove  towards  something,  and  dreamed  of 
something ;  I  '11  own  I  didn't  know  precisely 
what  it  was  I  dreamed  of  Now  I  understand 
what  was  lacking: — I  felt  my  loneliness,  thirsted 
for  the  society  of  so-called   live  people ;  the 

217 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

word  Life  waked  echoes  in  my  heart,  and 
with  a  vague  ache  I  listened  to  the  sound 
of  it.  .  .  .  Valerian  Nikitich,  pass  me  a 
cigarette.' 

Lighting  the  cigarette,  the  small  man  con- 
tinued : 

'  One  fine  morning  Bobov  came  running  to 
me,  out  of  breath :  "  Do  you  know,  old  man, 
the  great  news  ?  Kolosov  has  arrived."  "  Ko- 
losov  ?  and  who  on  earth  is  Mr.  Kolosov  ?  " 

*  "  You  don't  know  him  ?  Andriusha  Kolosov  ! 
Come,  old  boy,  let's  go  to  him  directly.  He 
came  back  last  night  from  a  holiday  engage- 
ment." "  But  what  sort  of  fellow  is  he  ?  "  "  An 
exceptional  man,  my  boy,  let  me  assure  you  ! " 
"  An  exceptional  man,"  I  answered  ;  "  then  you 
go  alone.  I  '11  stop  at  home.  I  know  your 
exceptional  men  !  A  half-tipsy  rhymester  with 
an  everlastingly  ecstatic  smile ! "  .  .  .  "  Oh 
no !  Kolosov 's  not  like  that."  I  was  on  the 
point  of  observing  that  it  was  for  Mr.  Kolosov 
to  call  on  me  ;  but,  I  don't  know  why,  I  obeyed 
Bobov  and  went.  Bobov  conducted  me  to  one 
of  the  very  dirtiest,  crookedest,  and  narrowest 
streets  in  Moscow.  .  .  .  The  house  in  which 
Kolosov  lodged  was  built  in  the  old-fashioned 
style,  rambling  and  uncomfortable.  We  went 
into  the  courtyard ;  a  fat  peasant  woman  was 
hanging  out  clothes  on  a  line  stretched  from 

218 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

the  house  to  the  fence.  .  .  .  Children  were 
squalling  on  the  wooden  staircase  .  .  .' 

'  Get  on  !  get  on  ! '  we  objected  plaintively. 

'  I  see,  gentlemen,  you  don't  care  for  the 
agreeable,  and  cling  solely  to  the  profitable. 
As  you  please !  We  groped  our  way  through 
a  dark  and  narrow  passage  to  Kolosov's  room  ; 
we  went  in.  You  have  most  likely  an  approxi- 
mate idea  of  what  a  poor  student's  room  is 
like.  Directly  facing  the  door  Kolosov  was 
sitting  on  a  chest  of  drawers,  smoking  a  pipe. 
He  gave  his  hand  to  Bobov  in  a  friendly 
way,  and  greeted  me  affably.  I  looked  at 
Kolosov  and  at  once  felt  irresistibly  drawn  to 
him.  Gentlemen  !  Bobov  was  right :  Kolosov 
really  was  a  remarkable  person.  Let  me  de- 
scribe a  little  more  in  detail.  .  .  .  He  was 
rather  tall,  slender,  graceful,  and  exceedingly 
good-looking.  His  face  ...  I  find  it  very 
difficult  to  describe  his  face.  It  is  easy  to 
describe  all  the  features  one  by  one  ;  but  how 
is  one  to  convey  to  any  one  else  what  con- 
stitutes the  distinguishing  characteristic,  the 
essence  of  just  t/iat  face?' 

'  What  Byron  calls  "  the  music  of  the  face," ' 
observed  a  tightly  buttoned-up,  pallid  gentle- 
man. 

'  Quite  so.  .  .  .  And  therefore  I  will  confine 
myself  to  a  single  remark  :  the  especial  "  some- 

219 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

thing  "  to  which  I  have  just  referred  consisted 
in  Kolosov's  case  in  a  carelessly  gay  and  fear- 
less expression  of  face,  and  also  in  an  exceed- 
ingly captivating  smile.  He  did  not  remember 
his  parents,  and  had  had  a  wretched  bringing- 
up  in  the  house  of  a  distant  relative,  who  had 
been  degraded  from  the  service  for  taking 
bribes.  Up  to  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  had  lived 
in  the  country ;  then  he  found  his  way  into 
Moscow,  and  after  two  years  spent  in  the  care 
of  an  old  deaf  priest's  wife,  he  entered  the 
university  and  began  to  get  his  living  by  lessons. 
He  gave  instruction  in  history,  geography,  and 
Russian  grammar,  though  he  had  only  a  dim 
notion  of  these  branches  of  science ;  but  in  the 
first  place,  there  is  an  abundance  of  '  text- 
books'  among  us  in  Russia,  of  the  greatest 
usefulness  to  teachers  ;  and  secondly,  the  re- 
quirements of  the  respectable  merchants,  who 
confided  their  children's  education  to  Kolosov, 
were  exceedingly  limited.  Kolosov  was  neither 
a  wit  nor  a  humorist ;  but  you  cannot  imagine 
how  readily  we  all  fell  under  that  fellow's  sway. 
We  felt  a  sort  of  instinctive  admiration  of  him  ; 
his  words,  his  looks,  his  gestures  were  all  so 
full  of  the  charm  of  youth  that  all  his  comrades 
were  head  over  ears  in  love  with  him.  The 
professors  considered  him  as  a  fairly  intelligent 
lad,   but  '  of    no   marked   abilities,'   and   lazy. 

220 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

Kolosov's  presence  gave  a  special  harmony  to 
our  evening  reunions.  Before  him,  our  liveli- 
ness never  passed  into  vulgar  riotousness ;  if 
we  were  all  melancholy — this  half  childlike 
melancholy,  in  his  presence,  led  on  to  quiet, 
sometimes  fairly  sensible,  conversation,  and 
never  ended  in  dejected  boredom.  You  are 
smiling,  gentlemen — I  understand  your  smile  ; 
no  doubt,  many  of  us  since  then  have  turned 
out  pretty  cads !     But  youth  .  .  .  youth.  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story  ! 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory.  .  .  .' 

commented  the  same  pallid  gentleman. 

'  By  Jove,  what  a  memory  he 's  got !  and  all 
from  Byron  ! '  observed  the  storyteller.  '  In  one 
word,  Kolosov  was  the  soul  of  our  set.  I  was 
attached  to  him  by  a  feeling  stronger  than  any  I 
have  ever  felt  for  any  woman.  And  yet,  I  don't 
feel  ashamed  even  now  to  remember  that  strange 
love — yes,  love  it  was,  for  I  recollect  I  went 
through  at  that  time  all  the  tortures  of  that 
passion,  jealousy,  for  instance.  Kolosov  liked  us 
all  equally,  but  was  particularly  friendly  with 
a  silent,  flaxen-haired,  and  unobtrusive  youth, 
called  Gavrilov.  From  Gavrilov  he  was  almost 
inseparable  ;  he  would  often  speak  to  him  in  a 
whisper,  and  used  to  disappear  with  him  out  of 
Moscow,  no  one  knew  where,  for  two  or  three 

221 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

days  at  a  time.  .  .  .  Kolosov  did  not  care  to 
be  questioned,  and  I  was  lost  in  surmises.  It 
was  not  simple  curiosity  that  disturbed  me.  I 
longed  to  become  the  friend,  the  attendant 
squire  of  Kolosov ;  I  was  jealous  of  Gavrifev ; 
I  envied  him  ;  I  could  never  find  an  explanation 
to  satisfy  me  of  Kolosov's  strange  absences. 
Meanwhile  he  had  none  of  that  air  of  mysterious- 
ness  about  him,  which  is  the  proud  possession 
of  youths  endowed  with  vanity,  pallor,  black 
hair,  and  '  expressive '  eyes,  nor  had  he  anything 
of  that  studied  carelessness  under  which  we  are 
given  to  understand  that  vast  forces  are 
slumbering ;  no,  he  was  quite  open  and  free ; 
but  when  he  was  possessed  by  passion,  an 
intense,  impulsive  energy  was  apparent  in 
everything  about  him  ;  only  he  did  not  waste 
his  energies  in  vain,  and  never  under  any  cir- 
cumstances became  high-flown  or  affected. 
By  the  way  .  .  .  tell  me  the  truth,  hasn't  it 
happened  to  you  to  sit  smoking  a  pipe  with  an 
air  of  as  weary  solemnity  as  if  you  had  just 
resolved  on  a  grand  achievement,  while  you 
were  simply  pondering  on  what  colour  to  choose 
for  your  next  pair  of  trousers  ?  .  .  .  But  the 
point  is,  that  I  was  the  first  to  observe  in  Kolosov, 
always  cheerful  and  friendly  as  he  was,  these 
instinctive,  passionate  impulses.  .  .  .  They 
may  well  say  that  love  is  penetrating.     I  made 

222 


(ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

Up  my  mind  at  all  hazards  to  get  into  his 
confidence.  It  was  no  use  for  me  to  lay  myself 
out  to  please  Kolosov ;  I  had  such  a  childlike 
adoration  for  him  that  he  could  have  no  doubt 
of  my  devotion  .  .  .  but  to  my  indescribable 
vexation,  I  had,  at  last,  to  yield  to  the  con- 
viction that  Kolosov  avoided  closer  intimacy 
with  me,  that  he  was  as  it  were  oppressed  by 
my  uninvited  attachment.  Once,  when  with 
obvious  displeasure  he  asked  me  to  lend  him 
money — the  very  next  day  he  returned  me  the 
loan  with  ironical  gratitude.  During  the  whole 
winter  my  relations  with  Kolosov  were  utterly 
unchanged ;  I  often  compared  myself  with 
Gavrilov,  and  could  not  make  out  in  what 
respect  he  was  better  than  I.  .  .  .  But  suddenly 
everything  was  changed.  In  the  middle  of 
April,  Gavrilov  fell  ill,  and  died  in  the  arms  of 
Kolosov,  who  never  left  his  room  for  an  instant, 
and  went  nowhere  for  a  whole  week  afterwards. 
We  were  all  grieved  for  poor  Gavrilov  ;  the  pale, 
siknt  lad  seemed  to  have  had  a  foreboding  of 
his  end.  I  too  grieved  sincerely  for  him,  but 
my  heart  ached  with  expectation  of  something. 
.  .  .  One  ever  memorable  evening  ...  I  was 
alone,  lying  on  the  sofa,  gazing  idly  at  the 
ceiling  .  .  .  some  one  rapidly  opened  the  door 
of  my  room  and  stood  still  in  the  doorway ;  I 
raised    my   head ;    before   me   stood    Kolosov. 

223 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

He  slowly  came  in  and  sat  down  beside  me. 

*  I  have  come  to  you/  he  began  in  a  rather 
thick  voice, '  because  you  care  more  for  me  than 
any  of  the  others  do.  ...  I  have  lost  my  best 
friend ' — his  voice  shook  a  little — *  and  I  feel 
lonely.  .  .  .  None  of  you  knew  Gavrilov  .  .  . 
none  of  you  knew.  .  .  .'  He  got  up,  paced  up 
and  down  the  room,  came  rapidly  towards  me 
again.  .  .  .  '  Will  you  take  his  place  ? '  he  said, 
and  gave  me  his  hand.  I  leaped  up  and  flung 
myself  on  his  breast.  My  genuine  delight 
touched  him.  ...  I  did  not  know  what  to  say, 
I  was  choking.  .  .  .  Kolosov  looked  at  me  and 
softly  laughed.  We  had  tea.  At  tea  he  talked 
of  Gavrilov  ;  I  heard  that  that  timid,  gentle 
boy  had  saved  Kolosov's  life,  and  I  could  not 
but  own  to  myself  that  in  Gavrilov's  place  I 
couldn't  have  resisted  chattering  about  it — 
boasting  of  my  luck.  It  struck  eight.  Kolosov 
got  up,  went  to  the  window,  drummed  on  the 
panes,  turned  swiftly  round  to  me,  tried  to  say 
something  .  .  .  and  sat  down  on  a  chair  without 
a  word.  I  took  his  hand.  '  Kolosov,  truly, 
truly  I  deserve  your  confidence  I '  He  looked 
straight  into  my  eyes.  '  Well,  if  so,'  he  brought 
out  at  last,  '  take  your  cap  and  come  along.' 

*  Where  to  ? '  '  Gavrilov  did  not  ask  me.'  I 
was  silent  at  once.  '  Can  you  play  at  cards  ?  ' 
'  Yes.' 

224 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

We  went  out,  took  a  cab  to  one  of  the  gates 
of  the  town.  At  the  gate  we  got  out.  Kolosov 
went  on  in  front  very  quickly ;  I  followed  him. 
We  walked  along  the  highroad.  After  we  had 
gone  three-quarters  of  a  mile,  Kolosov  turned 
off.  Meanwhile  night  had  come  on.  On  the 
right  in  the  fog  were  the  twinkling  lights,  the 
innumerable  church-spires  of  the  immense  city  ; 
on  the  left,  two  white  horses  were  grazing  in  a 
meadow  skirting  the  forest :  before  us  stretched 
fields  covered  with  greyish  mists.  I  followed 
Kolosov  in  silence.  He  stopped  all  at  once, 
stretched  his  hand  out  in  front  of  him,  and 
said  :  '  Here,  this  is  where  we  are  going.'  I 
saw  a  small  dark  house;  two  little  windows 
showed  a  dim  light  in  the  fog.  '  In  this  house,' 
Kolosov  went  on, '  lives  a  man  called  Sidorenko, 
a  retired  lieutenant,  with  his  sister,  an  old  maid, 
and  his  daughter.  I  shall  pass  you  off  as  a 
relation  of  mine — you  must  sit  down  and  play 
at  cards  with  him.'  I  nodded  without  a  word. 
I  wanted  to  show  Kolosov  that  I  could  be  as 
silent  as  Gavrilov.  .  .  .  But  I  will  own  I  was 
suffering  agonies  of  curiosity.  As  we  went  up 
to  the  steps  of  the  house,  I  caught  sight,  at  a 
lighted  window,  of  the  slender  figure  of  a  girl. 
.  .  .  She  seemed  waiting  for  us  and  vanished 
at  once.  We  w^ent  into  a  dark  and  narrow 
passage.     A    crooked,  hunchback   old  woman 

P  225 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

came  to  meet  us,  and  looked  at  me  with 
astonishment.  '  Is  Ivan  Semyonitch  at  home  ?  ' 
inquired  Kolosov.  '  He  is  at  home.'  .  .  .  '  He  is 
at  home  ! '  called  a  deep  masculine  voice  from 
within.  We  went  into  the  dining-room,  if  dining- 
room  one  can  call  the  long,  rather  dirty  room  ; 
a  small  old  piano  huddled  unassumingly  in  a 
corner  beside  the  stove ;  a  few  chairs  stood  out 
along  the  walls  which  had  once  been  yellow. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  tall,  stooping 
man  of  fifty,  in  a  greasy  dressing-gown.  I 
looked  at  him  more  attentively :  a  morose- 
looking  countenance,  hair  standing  up  like  a 
brush,  a  low  forehead,  grey  eyes,  immense 
whiskers,  thick  lips.  .  .  .  '  A  nice  customer ! ' 
I  thought.  'It's  a  longish  time  since  we've 
seen  you,  Andrei  Nikolaevitch,'  he  observed, 
holding  out  his  hideous  red  hand,  '  a  longish 
time  it  is  !  And  where 's  Sevastian  Sevastianov- 
itch  ? '  '  Gavrilov  is  dead,'  answered  Kolosov 
mournfully.  '  Dead  !  you  don't  say  so  !  And 
who 's  this  ? '  '  My  relation — I  have  the  honour 
to  present  to  you  Nikolai  Alexei.  .  .  .'  '  All 
right,  all  right,'  Ivan  Semyonitch  cut  him  short, 
'  delighted,  delighted.  And  does  he  play  cards? ' 
'  Play,  of  course  he  does  ! '  '  Ah,  then,  that 's 
capital ;  we  '11  sit  down  directly.  Hey ! 
Matrona  Semyonovna — where  are  you?  the 
card-table — quick!  .  .  .  And  tea!'     With  these 

226 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

words  Mr.  Sidorenko  walked  into  the  next 
room.  Kolosov  looked  at  me.  '  Listen/  he 
said, '  you  can't  think  how  ashamed  I  am  ! '  .  .  . 
I  shut  him  up.  '  Come,  you  there,  what 's  your 
name,  this  way,'  called  Ivan  Semyonitch.  I 
went  into  the  drawing-room.  The  drawing- 
room  was  even  smaller  than  the  dining-room. 
On  the  walls  hung  some  monstrosities  of  por- 
traits ;  in  front  of  the  sofa,  of  which  the  stuffing 
protruded  in  several  places,  stood  a  green  table; 
on  the  sofa  sat  Ivan  Semyonitch,  already 
shuffling  the  cards.  Near  him  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  a  low  chair  sat  a  spare  woman  in  a 
white  cap  and  a  black  gown,  yellow  and 
wrinkled,  with  short-sighted  eyes  and  thin  cat- 
like lips.  '  Here,'  said  Ivan  Semyonitch, '  let  me 
introduce  him  ;  the  first  man  's  dead  ;  Andrei 
Nikolaevitch  has  brought  us  another ;  let 's  see 
how  he  plays!'  The  old  lady  bowed  awkwardly 
and  cleared  her  throat.  I  looked  round ; 
Kolosov  was  no  longer  in  the  room.  '  Stop 
that  coughing,  Matrona  Semyonovna ;  sheep 
cough,'  grumbled  Sidorenko.  I  sat  down ;  the 
game  began.  Mr.  Sidorenko  got  fearfully  hot 
and  furious  at  my  slightest  mistake ;  he  pelted 
his  sister  with  abusive  epithets,  but  she  had 
apparently  had  time  to  get  used  to  her  brother's 
amenities,  and  only  blinked  in  response.  But 
when  he  announced  to  Matrona  Semyonovna 

227 


ANDREI    KOLOSOV 

that  she  was  '  Antichrist,'  the  poor  old  woman 
fired  up.  '  Ivan  Semyonitch,'  she  protested  with 
heat,  '  you  were  the  death  of  your  wife,  Anfisa 
Karpovna,  but  you  shan't  worry  me  into  my 
grave!'  'Indeed?'  'No!  you  shan't.'  'Indeed?' 
'  No !  you  shan't.'  They  kept  it  up  in  this 
fashion  for  some  time.  My  position  was,  as 
you  perceive,  not  merely  an  unenviable  one :  it 
was  positively  idiotic.  I  couldn't  conceive  what 
had  induced  Kolosov  to  bring  me.  ...  I  have 
never  been  a  good  card-player ;  but  on  that 
occasion  I  was  aware  myself  that  I  was  playing 
excruciatingly  badly.  '  No  ! '  the  retired  lieu- 
tenant repeated  continually,  '  you  can't  hold  a 
candle  to  Sevastianovitch  !  No  !  you  play  care- 
lessly ! '  I,  you  may  be  sure,  was  inwardly 
wishing  him  at  the  devil.  This  torture  con- 
tinued for  two  hours  ;  they  beat  me  hollow. 
Before  the  end  of  the  last  rubber,  I  heard  a 
slight  sound  behind  my  chair — I  looked  round 
and  saw  Kolosov  ;  beside  him  stood  a  girl  of 
seventeen,  who  was  watching  me  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  smile.  '  Fill  me  my  pipe,  Varia,' 
muttered  Ivan  Semyonitch.  The  girl  promptly 
flew  off  into  the  other  room.  She  was  not  very 
pretty,  rather  pale,  rather  thin  ;  but  never  before 
or  since  have  I  seen  such  hair,  such  eyes. 
We  finished  the  rubber  somehow ;  I  paid  up. 
Sidorenko    lighted    his    pipe    and    grumbled : 

228 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

'  Well,  now  it 's  time  for  supper  ! '  Kolosov 
presented  me  to  Varia,  that  is,  to  Varvara 
Ivanovna,  the  daughter  of  Ivan  Semyonitch. 
Varia  was  embarrassed  ;  I  too  was  embarrassed. 
But  in  a  few  minutes  Kolosov,  as  usual,  had 
got  everything  and  everyone  into  full  swing;  he 
sat  Varia  down  to  the  piano,  begged  her  to  play 
a  dance  tune,  and  proceeded  to  dance  a  Cossack 
dance  in  competition  with  Ivan  Semyonitch. 
The  lieutenant  uttered  little  shrieks,  stamped 
and  cut  such  incredible  capers  that  even 
Matrona  Semyonovna  burst  out  laughing  and 
retreated  to  her  own  room  upstairs.  The 
hunchback  old  woman  laid  the  table  ;  we  sat 
down  to  supper.  At  supper  Kolosov  told  all 
sorts  of  nonsensical  stories ;  the  lieutenant's 
guffaws  were  deafening  ;  I  peeped  from  under 
my  eyelids  at  Varia.  She  never  took  her  eyes 
off  Kolosov  .  .  .  and  from  the  expression  of 
her  face  alone,  I  could  divine  that  she  both  loved 
him  and  was  loved  by  him.  Her  lips  w^ere 
slightly  parted,  her  head  bent  a  little  forward, 
a  faint  colour  kept  flitting  across  her  whole 
face ;  from  time  to  time  she  sighed  deeply, 
suddenly  dropped  her  eyes,  and  softly  laughed 
to  herself.  ...  I  rejoiced  for  Kolosov.  .  .  . 
But  at  the  same  time,  deuce  take  it,  I  was 
envious.  .  .  . 

After  supper,  Kolosov   and  I  promptly  took 

229 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

Up  our  caps,  which  did  not,  however,  prevent 
the  lieutenant  from  saying,  with  a  yawn : 
'  You  Ve  paid  us  a  long  visit,  gentlemen  ;  it 's 
time  to  say  good-bye.'  Varia  accompanied 
Kolosov  into  the  passage :  '  When  are  you 
coming,  Andrei  Nikolaevitch  ? '  she  whispered 
to  him.  '  In  a  few  days,  for  certain.'  '  Bring 
him  too,'  she  added,  with  a  very  sly  smile. 
'  Of  course,  of  course.'  .  .  .  '  Your  humble  ser- 
vant ! '  thought  I.  .  .  . 

On  the  way  home,  I  heard  the  following 
story.  Six  months  before,  Kolosov  had  become 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Sidorenko  in  a  rather 
queer  way.  One  rainy  evening,  Kolosov  was 
returning  home  from  shooting,  and  had  reached 
the  gate  of  the  city,  when  suddenly,  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  highroad,  he  heard  groans, 
interspersed  with  curses.  He  had  a  gun  ;  with- 
out thinking  long,  he  made  straight  for  the 
sound,  and  found  a  man  lying  on  the  ground 
with  a  dislocated  ankle.  This  man  was  Mr. 
Sidorenko.  With  great  difficulty  he  got  him 
home,  handed  him  over  to  the  care  of  his 
frightened  sister  and  his  daughter,  and  ran  for 
the  doctor.  .  .  .  Meantime  it  was  nearly 
morning ;  Kolosov  was  almost  dropping  with 
fatigue.  With  the  permission  of  Matrona 
Semyonovna,  he  lay  down  on  the  sofa  in  the 
parlour,  and  slept  till  eight  o'clock.    On  waking 

230 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

up  he  would  at  once  have  gone  home ;  but 
they  kept  him  and  gave  him  some  tea.  In  the 
night  he  had  twice  succeeded  in  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  pale  face  of  Varvara  Ivanovna  ; 
he  had  not  particularly  noticed  her,  but  in 
the  morning  she  made  a  decidedly  agreeable 
impression  on  him.  Matrona  Semyonovna 
garrulously  praised  and  thanked  Kolosov ; 
Varvara  sat  silent,  pouring  out  the  tea,  glanced 
at  him  now  and  then,  and  with  timid  shame- 
faced attentiveness  handed  him  first  a  cup 
of  tea,  then  the  cream,  then  the  sugar-basin. 
Meanwhile  the  lieutenant  waked  up,  loudly 
called  for  his  pipe,  and  after  a  short  pause 
bawled  :  '  Sister  !  hi,  sister  ! '  Matrona  Sem- 
yonovna went  to  his  bedroom.  '  What  about 
that  .  .  .  what  the  devil 's  his  name  ?  is  he 
gone  ? '  '  No,  I  'm  still  here,'  answered  Kolosov, 
going  up  to  the  door  ;  '  are  you  better  now  ? ' 
'  Yes,'  answered  the  lieutenant ;  '  come  in  here, 
my  good  sir.'  Kolosov  went  in.  Sidorenko 
looked  at  him,  and  reluctantly  observed : 
'  Well,  thanks ;  come  sometimes  and  see  me 
— what 's  your  name  ?  who  the  devil 's  to 
know  ?  '  '  Kolosov,'  answered  Andrei.  '  Well, 
well,  come  and  see  us ;  but  it 's  no  use  your 
sticking  on  here  now,  I  daresay  they're  ex- 
pecting you  at  home.'  Kolosov  retreated,  said 
good-bye  to  Matrona  Semyonovna,  bowed  to 

231 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

Varvara  Ivanovna,  and  returned  home.  From 
that  day  he  began  to  visit  Ivan  Semyonitch, 
at  first  at  long  intervals,  then  more  and  more 
frequently.  The  summer  came  on  ;  he  would 
sometimes  take  his  gun,  put  on  his  knapsack, 
and  set  off  as  if  he  were  going  shooting.  He 
would  go  to  the  retired  lieutenant's,  and  stay 
on  there  till  evening. 

Varvara  Ivanovna's  father  had  served  twenty- 
five  years  in  the  army,  had  saved  a  small  sum  of 
money,  and  bought  himself  a  few  acres  of  land  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  Moscow.  He  could  scarcely 
read  and  write  ;  but  in  spite  of  his  external 
clumsiness  and  coarseness,  he  was  shrewd  and 
cunning,  and  even,  on  occasion,  capable  of  sharp 
practice,  like  many  Little  Russians.  He  was  a 
fearful  egoist,  obstinate  as  an  ox,  and  in  general 
exceedingly  impolite,  especially  with  strangers  ; 
I  even  detected  in  him  something  like  a  contempt 
for  the  whole  human  race.  He  indulged  himself 
in  every  caprice,  like  a  spoilt  child  ;  would  know 
no  one,  and  lived  for  his  own  pleasure.  We  were 
once  somehow  or  other  talking  about  marriages 
with  him  ;  '  Marriage  .  .  .  marriage,'  said  he  ; 
'  whom  the  devil  would  I  let  my  daughter 
marry  ?  Eh  ?  what  should  I  do  it  for  ?  for  her 
husband  to  knock  her  about  as  I  used  to  my 
wife  ?  Besides,  whom  should  I  be  left  with  ?  ' 
Such  was  the  retired  lieutenant,  Ivan  Semyon- 

2^2 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

itch.  Kolosov  used  to  go  and  see  him,  not  on 
his  account,  of  course,  but  for  the  sake  of  his 
daughter.  One  fine  evening,  Andrei  was 
sitting  in  the  garden  with  her,  chatting  about 
something ;  Ivan  Semyonitch  went  up  to  him, 
looked  sullenl}^  at  Varia,  and  called  Andrei 
away.  '  Listen,  my  dear  fellow,'  he  said  to 
him  ;  '  you  find  it  good  fun,  I  see,  gossiping 
with  my  only  child,  but  I  'm  dull  in  my  old 
age ;  bring  some  one  with  you,  or  I  've  nobody 
to  deal  a  card  to ;  d'  ye  hear  ?  I  shan't  give 
admittance  to  you  by  yourself  The  next 
day  Kolosov  turned  up  with  Gavrilov,  and 
poor  Sevastian  Sevastianovitch  had  for  a  whole 
autumn  and  winter  been  playing  cards  in  the 
evenings  with  the  retired  lieutenant ;  that 
worthy  treated  him  without  ceremony,  as  it  is 
called — in  other  words,  fearfully  rudely.  You 
now  probably  realise  why  it  was  that,  after 
Gavrilov's  death,  Kolosov  took  me  with  him 
to  Ivan  Semyonitch's.  As  he  communicated 
all  these  details,  Kolosov  added,  '  I  love  Varia, 
she  is  the  dearest  girl ;  she  liked  you.' 

I  have  forgotten,  I  fancy,  to  make  known  to 
you  that  up  to  that  time  I  had  been  afraid  of 
women  and  avoided  them,  though  I  would 
sometimes,  in  solitude,  spend  whole  hours  in 
dreaming  of  tender  interviews,  of  love,  of 
mutual  love,  and    so   on.      Varvara    Ivanovna 


2 


JO 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

was  the  first  girl  with  whom  I  was  forced  to 
talk,  by  necessity  —  by  necessity  it  really 
was.  Varia  was  an  ordinary  girl,  and  yet 
there  are  very  few  such  girls  in  holy  Russia. 
You  will  ask  me — why  so?  Because  I  never 
noticed  in  her  anything  strained,  unnatural, 
affected ;  because  she  was  a  simple,  candid, 
rather  melancholy  creature,  because  one  could 
never  call  her  '  a  young  lady.'  I  liked  her  soft 
smile  ;  I  liked  her  simple-hearted,  ringing  little 
voice,  her  light  and  mirthful  laugh,  her  atten- 
tive though  by  no  means  '  profound '  glances. 
The  child  promised  nothing ;  but  you  could 
not  help  admiring  her,  as  you  admire  the 
sudden,  soft  cry  of  the  oriole  at  evening,  in 
the  lofty,  dark  birch-wood.  I  must  confess  that 
at  the  present  time  I  should  pass  by  such  a 
creature  with  some  indifference ;  I  've  no  taste 
now  for  solitary  evening  strolls,  and  orioles ; 
but  in  those  days  .  .  . 

I  've  no  doubt,  gentlemen,  that,  like  all  well- 
educated  persons,  you  have  been  in  love  at  least 
once  in  the  course  of  your  life,  and  have  learnt 
from  your  own  experience  how  love  springs  up 
and  develops  in  the  human  heart,  and  therefore 
I  'm  not  going  to  enlarge  too  much  on  what 
took  place  with  me  at  that  time.  Kolosov 
and  I  used  to  go  pretty  often  to  Ivan  Semyon- 
itch's  ;  and  though  those  damned  cards  often 

234 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

drove  me  to  utter  despair,  still,  in  the  mere 
proximity  of  the  woman  one  loves  (I  had  fallen 
in  love  with  Varia)  there  is  a  sort  of  strange, 
sweet,  tormenting  joy.  I  made  no  effort  to 
suppress  this  growing  feeling ;  besides,  by  the 
time  I  had  at  last  brought  myself  to  call  the 
emotion  by  its  true  name,  it  was  already  too 
strong.  ...  I  cherished  my  love  in  silence, 
and  jealously  and  shyly  concealed  it.  I  myself 
enjoyed  this  agonising  ferment  of  silent 
passion.  My  sufferings  did  not  rob  me  of  my 
sleep,  nor  of  my  appetite  ;  but  for  whole  days 
together  I  was  conscious  of  that  peculiar  physi- 
cal sensation  in  my  breast  which  is  a  symptom 
of  the  presence  of  love.  I  am  incapable  of 
depicting  the  conflict  of  various  sensations 
which  took  place  within  me  when,  for  example, 
Kolosov  came  in  from  the  garden  with  Varia, 
and  her  whole  face  was  aglow  with  ecstatic 
devotion,  exhaustion  from  excess  of  bliss.  .  .  . 
She  so  completely  lived  in  his  life,  was  so 
completely  taken  up  with  him,  that  uncon- 
sciously she  adopted  his  ways,  looked  as  he 
looked,  laughed  as  he  laughed.  ...  I  can 
imagine  the  moments  she  passed  with  Andrei, 
the  raptures  she  owed  to  him.  .  .  .  While  he 
.  .  .  Kolosov  did  not  lose  his  freedom ;  in 
her  absence  he  did  not,  I  suppose,  even  think 
of  her  ;    he   was   still  the  same  unconcerned, 

235 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

gay,  and  happy  fellow  we  had  always  known 
him. 

And,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  we  used, 
Kolosov  and  I,  to  go  pretty  often  to  Ivan 
Semyonitch's.  Sometimes,  when  he  was  out  of 
humour,  the  retired  lieutenant  did  not  make 
me  sit  down  to  cards  ;  on  such  occasions,  he 
would  shrink  into  a  corner  in  silence,  scowling 
and  looking  crossly  at  every  one.  The  first 
time  I  was  delighted  at  his  letting  me  off  so 
easily  ;  but  afterwards  I  would  sometimes 
begin  myself  begging  him  to  sit  down  to 
whist,  the  part  of  third  person  was  so  insup- 
portable! I  was  so  unpleasantly  in  Kolosov's 
and  Varia's  way,  though  they  did  assure  each 
other  that  there  was  no  need  to  mind  me  !  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  time  went  on.  .  .  .  They  were 
happy.  ...  I  have  no  great  fondness  for  de- 
scribing other  people's  happiness.  But  then  I 
began  to  notice  that  Varia's  childish  ecstasy  had 
gradually  given  way  to  a  more  womanly,  more 
restless  feeling.  I  began  to  surmise  that  the 
new  song  was  being  sung  to  the  old  tune — that 
is,  that  Kolosov  was  .  .  .  little  by  little  .  .  . 
cooling.  This  discovery,  I  must  own,  delighted 
me  ;  I  did  not  feel,  I  must  confess,  the  slightest 
indignation  against  Andrei. 

The  intervals  between  our  visits  became 
longer  and   longer.  .  .  .  Varia   began   to  meet 

2^6 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

US  with  tear-stained  eyes.  Reproaches  were 
heard  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  asked  Kolosov  with 
affected  indifference,  '  Well,  shall  we  go  to 
Ivan  Semyonitch's  to-day  ? '  .  .  .  He  looked 
coldly  at  me,  and  answered  quietly,  'No,  we're 
not  going.'  I  sometimes  fancied  that  he  smiled 
slily  when  he  spoke  to  me  of  Varia.  ...  I  failed 
generally  to  fill  Gavrilov's  place  with  him.  .  .  . 
Gavrilov  was  a  thousand  times  more  good- 
natured  and  foolish  than  I. 

Now  allow  me  a  slight  digression.  .  .  .  When 
I  spoke  of  my  university  comrades,  I  did  not 
mention  a  certain  Mr.  Shtchitov.  He  was  five- 
and-thirty  ;  he  had  been  a  student  for  ten  years 
already.  I  can  see  even  now  his  rather  long  pale 
face,  his  little  brown  eyes,  his  long  hawk  nose 
crooked  at  the  end,  his  thin  sarcastic  lips,  his 
solemn  upstanding  shock  of  hair,  and  his  chin 
that  lost  itself  complacently  in  the  wide  striped 
cravat  of  the  colour  of  a  raven's  wing,  the  shirt 
front  with  bronze  buttons,  the  open  blue  frock- 
coat  and  striped  waistcoat.  ...  I  can  hear  his 
unpleasantly  jarring  laugh.  .  .  .  He  went  every- 
where, was  conspicuous  at  all  possible  kinds  of 
'  dancing  classes.'  ...  I  remember  I  could  not 
listen  to  his  cynical  stories  without  a  peculiar 
shudder.  .  .  .  Kolosov  once  compared  him  to 
an  unswept  Russian  refreshment  bar  ...  a 
horrible  comparison  !     And  with  all  that,  there 

237 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

was  a  lot  of  intelligence,  common  sense,  observa- 
tion, and  wit  in  the  man.  .  .  .  He  sometimes 
impressed  us  by  some  saying  so  apt,  so  true 
and  cutting,  that  we  were  all  involuntarily 
reduced  to  silence  and  looked  at  him  with 
amazement.  But,  to  be  sure,  it  is  just  the  same 
to  a  Russian  whether  he  has  uttered  an  absurdity 
or  a  clever  thing.  Shtchitov  was  especially 
dreaded  by  those  self-conscious,  dreamy,  and 
not  particularly  gifted  youths  who  spend  whole 
days  in  painfully  hatching  a  dozen  trashy  lines 
of  verse  and  reading  them  in  sing-song  to  their 
'  friends,'  and  who  despise  every  sort  of  positive 
science.  One  such  he  simply  drove  out  of 
Moscow,  by  continually  repeating  to  him  two 
of  his  own  lines.  Yet  all  the  while  Shtchitov 
himself  did  nothing  and  learnt  nothing.  .  .  . 
But  that 's  all  in  the  natural  order  of  things. 
Well,  Shtchitov,  God  only  knows  why,  began 
jeering  at  my  romantic  attachment  to  Kolosov. 
The  first  time,  with  noble  indignation,  I  told 
him  to  go  to  the  devil ;  the  second  time,  with 
chilly  contempt,  I  informed  him  that  he  was 
not  capable  of  judging  of  our  friendship — but 
I  did  not  send  him  away ;  and  when,  on  taking 
leave  of  me,  he  observed  that  without  Kolosov's 
permission  I  didn't  even  dare  to  praise  him, 
I  felt  annoyed  ;  Shtchitov's  last  words  sank  into 
my  heart. — For  more  than  a  fortnight  I  had 

238 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

not  seen  Varia.  .  .  .  Pride,  love,  a  vague  anti- 
cipation, a  number  of  different  feelings  were 
astir  within  me  .  .  .  with  a  wave  of  the  hand 
and  a  fearful  sinking  at  my  heart,  I  set  off 
alone  to  Ivan  Semyonitch's. 

I  don't  know  how  I  made  my  way  to  the 
familiar  little  house  ;  I  remember  I  sat  down 
several  times  by  the  road  to  rest,  not  from 
fatigue,  but  from  emotion.  I  went  into  the 
passage,  and  had  not  yet  had  time  to  utter  a 
single  word  when  the  door  of  the  drawing-room 
flew  open  and  Varia  ran  to  meet  me.  '  At  last,' 
she  said,  in  a  quavering  voice  ;  '  where 's  Andrei 
Nikolaevitch  ? '  *  Kolosov  has  not  come,'  I 
muttered  with  an  effort.  '  Not  come ! '  she 
repeated.  '  Yes  ...  he  told  me  to  tell  you 
that ...  he  was  detained.  .  .  .'  I  positively  did 
not  know  what  I  was  saying,  and  I  did  not 
dare  to  raise  my  eyes.  Varia  stood  silent  and 
motionless  before  me.  I  glanced  at  her :  she 
turned  away  her  head  ;  two  big  tears  rolled 
slowly  down  her  cheeks.  In  the  expression  of 
her  face  there  was  such  sudden,  bitter  suffering  ; 
the  conflict  between  bashfulness,  sorrow,  and 
confidence  in  me  was  so  simply,  so  touchingly 
apparent  in  the  unconscious  movement  of  her 
poor  little  head  that  it  sent  a  pang  to  my  heart. 
I  bent  a  little  forward  .  .  .  she  gave  a  hurried 
start  and  ran  away.     In  the  parlour  I  was  met 

239 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

by  Ivan  Semyonitch.  '  How 's  this,  my  good 
sir,  are  you  alone  ? '  he  asked  me,  with  a  queer 
twitch  of  his  left  eyelid.  '  Yes,  I  Ve  come  alone,' 
I  stammered.  Sidorenko  went  off  into  a  sudden 
guffaw  and  departed  into  the  next  room. 

I  had  never  been  in  such  a  foolish  position  ;  it 
was  too  devilishly  disgusting  !  But  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  I  began  walking  up  and 
down  the  room.  '  What  was  the  fat  pig  laugh- 
ing at  ? '  I  wondered.  Matrona  Semyonovna 
came  into  the  room  with  a  stocking  in  her 
hands  and  sat  down  in  the  window.  I  began 
talking  to  her.  Meanwhile  tea  was  brought  in. 
Varia  came  downstairs,  pale  and  sorrowful. 
The  retired  lieutenant  made  jokes  about 
Kolosov.  '  I  know,'  said  he,  '  what  sort  of 
customer  he  is ;  you  couldn't  tempt  him  here 
with  lollipops  now,  I  expect ! '  Varia  hurriedly 
got  up  and  went  away.  Ivan  Semyonitch 
looked  after  her  and  gave  a  sly  whistle.  I 
glanced  at  him  in  perplexity.  *  Can  it  be,' 
I  wondered,  '  that  he  knows  all  about  it  ? ' 
And  the  lieutenant,  as  though  divining  my 
thoughts,  nodded  his  head  affirmatively. 
Directly  after  tea  I  got  up  and  took  leave. 
'  You,  my  good  sir,  we  shall  see  again,'  observed 
the  lieutenant.  I  did  not  say  a  word  in  reply. 
...  I  began  to  feel  simply  frightened  of  the 
man. 

240 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

On  the  steps  a  cold  and  trembling  hand 
clutched  at  mine ;  I  looked  round :  Varia. 
'  I  must  speak  to  you/  she  whispered.  '  Come 
to-morrow  rather  earlier,  straight  into  the 
garden.  After  dinner  papa  is  asleep ;  no  one 
will  interfere  with  us.'  I  pressed  her  hand 
without  a  word,  and  we  parted. 

Next  day,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
I  was  in  Ivan  Semyonitch's  garden.  In  the 
morning  I  had  not  seen  Kolosov,  though  he  had 
come  to  see  me.  It  was  a  grey  autumn  day, 
but  soft  and  warm.  Delicate  yellow  blades  of 
grass  nodded  over  the  blanching  turf;  the  nimble 
tomtits  were  hopping  about  the  bare  dark- 
brown  twigs ;  some  belated  larks  were  hurriedly 
running  about  the  paths  ;  a  hare  was  creeping 
cautiously  about  among  the  greens  ;  a  herd  of 
cattle  wandered  lazily  over  the  stubble.  I  found 
Varia  in  the  garden  under  the  apple-tree  on 
the  little  garden-seat ;  she  was  wearing  a  dark 
dress,  rather  creased ;  her  weary  eyes,  the 
dejected  droop  of  her  hair,  seemed  to  express 
genuine  suffering. 

I  sat  down  beside  her.  We  were  both  silent. 
For  a  long  while  she  kept  twisting  a  twig  in 
her  hand ;  she  bent  her  head,  and  uttered : 
'  Andrei  Nikolaevitch.  .  .  .'  I  noticed  at  once, 
by  the  twitching  of  her  lips,  that  she  was  getting 
ready  to  cry,  and  began  consoling  her,  assuring 
Q  241 


ANDREI    KOLOSOV 

her  hotly  of  Andrei's  devotion.  .  .  .  She  heard 
me,  nodded  her  head  mournfully,  articulated 
some  indistinct  words,  and  then  was  silent  but 
did  not  cry.  The  first  moments  I  had  dreaded 
most  of  all  had  gone  off  fairly  well.  She  began 
little  by  little  to  talk  about  Andrei.  '  I  know 
that  he  does  not  love  me  now,'  she  repeated  : 
'  God  be  with  him  !  I  can't  imagine  how  I  am 
to  live  without  him.  ...  I  don't  sleep  at  nights, 
I  keep  weeping.  .  .  .  What  am  I  to  do !  What 
am  I  to  do  !  .  .  .'  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  I 
thought  him  so  kind  .  .  .  and  here  .  .  .'  Varia 
wiped  her  eyes,  cleared  her  throat,  and  sat  up. 
'  It  seems  such  a  little  while  ago,'  she  went  on  : 
'  he  was  reading  to  me  out  of  Pushkin,  sitting 
with  me  on  this  bench.  .  .  .'  Varia's  naive 
communicativeness  touched  me.  I  listened  in 
silence  to  her  confessions  ;  my  soul  was  slowly 
filled  with  a  bitter,  torturing  bliss  ;  I  could  not 
take  my  eyes  off  that  pale  face,  those  long,  wet 
eyelashes,  and  half-parted,  rather  parched  lips. 
.  .  .  And  meanwhile  I  felt  .  .  .  Would  you 
care  to  hear  a  slight  psychological  analysis  of 
my  emotions  at  that  moment  ?  in  the  first  place 
I  was  tortured  by  the  thought  that  it  was  not 
I  that  was  loved,  not  I  that  was  making  Varia 
suffer :  secondly,  I  was  delighted  at  her  con- 
fidence ;  I  knew  she  would  be  grateful  to  me 
for  giving  her  an  opportunity  of  expressing  her 

242 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

sorrow :  thirdly,  I  was  inwardly  vowing  to 
myself  to  bring  Kolosov  and  Varia  together 
again,  and  was  deriving  consolation  from  the 
consciousness  of  my  magnanimity  ...  in  the 
fourth  place,  I  hoped,  by  my  self-sacrifice,  to 
touch  Varia's  heart  ;  and  then  .  .  .  You  see 
I  do  not  spare  myself;  no,  thank  God!  it's 
high  time ! 

But  from  the  bell-tower  of  the  monastery 
near  it  struck  five  o'clock  ;  the  evening  was 
coming  on  rapidly.  Varia  got  up  hastily, 
thrust  a  little  note  into  my  hand,  and  went 
off  towards  the  house.  I  overtook  her,  pro- 
mised to  bring  Andrei  to  her,  and  stealthily, 
like  a  happy  lover,  crept  out  by  the  little  gate 
into  the  field.  On  the  note  was  written  in 
an  unsteady  hand  the  words :  To  Andrei 
Nikolaevitch. 

Next  day  I  set  off  early  in  the  morning  to 
Kolosov's.  I  'm  bound  to  confess  that,  although 
I  assured  myself  that  my  intentions  were  not 
only  honourable,  but  positively  brimful  of  great- 
hearted self-sacrifice,  I  was  yet  conscious  of  a 
certain  awkwardness,  even  timidity.  I  arrived  at 
Kolosov's.  There  was  with  him  a  fellow  called 
Puzyritsin,  a  former  student  who  had  never 
taken  his  degree,  one  of  those  authors  of  sen- 
sational novels  of  the  so-called  '  Moscow '  or 
'  grey '  school.      Puzyritsin   was   a  very  good- 

243 


ANDREI    KOLOSOV 

natured  and  shy  person,  and  was  always  pre- 
paring to  be  an  hussar,  in  spite  of  his  thirty- 
three  years.  He  belonged  to  that  class  of 
people  who  feel  it  absolutely  necessary,  once 
in  the  twenty-four  hours,  to  utter  a  phrase  after 
the  pattern  of,  '  The  beautiful  always  falls 
into  decay  in  the  flower  of  its  splendour ;  such 
is  the  fate  of  the  beautiful  in  the  world,'  in 
order  to  smoke  his  pipe  with  redoubled  zest  all 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  a  circle  of '  good  comrades.' 
On  this  account  he  was  called  an  idealist. 
Well,  so  Puzyritsin  was  sitting  with  Kolosov 
reading  him  some  '  fragment.'  I  began  to 
listen ;  it  was  all  about  a  youth,  who  loves  a 
maiden,  kills  her,  and  so  on.  At  last  Puzyritsin 
finished  and  retreated.  His  absurd  production, 
solemnly  bawling  voice,  his  presence  altogether, 
had  put  Kolosov  into  a  mood  of  sarcastic  irrita- 
bility. I  felt  that  I  had  come  at  an  unlucky 
moment,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
for  it ;  without  any  kind  of  preface,  I  handed 
Andrei  Varia's  note. 

Kolosov  looked  at  me  in  perplexity,  tore 
open  the  note,  ran  his  eyes  over  it,  said  nothing, 
but  smiled  composedly.  '  Oh,  ho  ! '  he  said  at 
last ;  '  so  you  've  been  at  Ivan  Semyonitch's  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  was  there  yesterday,  alone,'  I  answered 
abruptly  and  resolutely. 

'  Ah !  .  .  .'  observed  Kolosov  ironically,  and 

244 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

he  lighted  his  pipe.  '  Andrei,'  I  said  to  him, 
'aren't  you  sorry  for  her?  .  .  .  If  you  had  seen 
her  tears  .  .  .' 

And  I  launched  into  an  eloquent  description 
of  my  visit  of  the  previous  day.  I  was  genu- 
inely moved.  Kolosov  did  not  speak,  and 
smoked  his  pipe. 

'  You  sat  with  her  under  the  apple-tree  in 
the  garden,'  he  said  at  last.  '  I  remember  in 
May  I,  too,  used  to  sit  with  her  on  that  seat. 
.  .  .  The  apple-tree  was  in  blossom,  the  fresh 
white  flowers  fell  upon  us  sometimes ;  I  held 
both  Varia's  hands  ...  we  were  happy  then. 
.  .  .  Now  the  apple-blossom  is  over,  and  the 
apples  on  the  tree  are  sour.' 

I  flew  into  a  passion  of  noble  indignation, 
began  reproaching  Andrei  for  coldness,  for 
cruelty,  argued  with  him  that  he  had  no  right 
to  abandon  a  girl  so  suddenly,  after  awaken- 
ing in  her  a  multitude  of  new  emotions ;  I 
begged  him  at  least  to  go  and  say  good-bye 
to  Varia.     Kolosov  heard  me  to  the  end. 

'Admitting,'  he  said  to  me,  when,  agitated 
and  exhausted,  I  flung  myself  into  an  arm- 
chair, '  that  you,  as  my  friend,  may  be  allowed 
to  criticise  me.  But  hear  my  defence,  at  least, 
though  .  .  .* 

Here  he  paused  for  a  little  while  and  smiled 
curiously.      '  Varia 's  an  excellent  girl,'  he  went 

245 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

on,  '  and  has  done  me  no  wrong  whatever.  .  .  . 
On  the  contrary,  I  am  greatly,  very  greatly 
indebted  to  her.  I  have  left  off  going  to  see 
her  for  a  very  simple  reason — I  have  left  off 
caring  for  her.  .  .  .' 

*But  why?  why?'  I  interrupted  him. 

'  Goodness  knows  why.  While  I  loved  her, 
I  was  entirely  hers ;  I  never  thought  of  the 
future,  and  everything,  my  whole  life,  I  shared 
with  her  .  .  .  now  this  passion  has  died  out 
in  me.  .  .  .  Well,  you  would  tell  me  to  be  a 
humbug,  to  play  at  being  in  love,  wouldn't 
you?  But  what  for?  from  pity  for  her?  If 
she's  a  decent  girl,  she  won't  care  for  such 
charity  herself,  but  if  she  is  glad  to  be  con- 
soled by  my  .  .  .  my  sympathy,  well,  she 's 
not  good  for  much  ! ' 

Kolosov's  carelessly  offhand  expressions 
offended  me,  perhaps,  the  more  because  they 
were  applied  to  the  woman  with  whom  I  was 
secretly  in  love.  ...  I  fired  up.  '  Stop,'  I  said 
to  him  ;  '  stop  !  I  know  why  you  have  given  up 
going  to  see  Varia.' 

'Why?' 

'  Taniusha  has  forbidden  you  to.' 

In  uttering  these  words,  I  fancied  I  was 
dealing  a  most  cutting  blow  at  Andrei.  Tani- 
usha was  a  very  *  easy-going '  young  lady, 
black-haired,  dark,  five-and-twenty,  free  in  her 

246 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

manners,  and  devilishly  clever,  a  Shtchitov  in 
petticoats.  Kolosov  quarrelled  with  her  and 
made  it  up  again  half  a  dozen  times  in  a 
month.  She  was  passionately  fond  of  him, 
though  sometimes,  during  their  misunderstand- 
ings, she  would  vow  and  declare  that  she  thirsted 
for  his  blood.  .  .  .  And  Andrei,  too,  could  not 
get  on  without  her.  Kolosov  looked  at  me,  and 
responded  serenely,  '  Perhaps  so.' 

'  Not  perhaps  so,'  I  shouted,  '  but  certainly  ! ' 

Kolosov  at  last  got  sick  of  my  reproaches. 
.  .   .  He  got  up  and  put  on  his  cap. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ? ' 

'  For  a  walk  ;  you  and  Puzyritsin  have  given 
me  a  headache  between  you.' 

'  You  are  angry  with  me  ? ' 

'  No,'  he  answered,  smiling  his  sweet  smile, 
and  holding  out  his  hand  to  me. 

'  Well,  anyway,  what  do  you  wish  me  to  tell 
Varia  ? ' 

'  Eh  ? '  .  .  .  He  thought  a  little.  '  She  told 
you,'  he  said,  '  that  we  had  read  Pushkin  to- 
gether. .  .  .  Remind  her  of  one  line  of 
Pushkin's.'  'What  line?  what  line?'  I  asked 
impatiently.     '  This  one  : 

"  What  has  been  will  not  be  again." ' 

With  those  words  he  went  out  of  the  room.  I 
followed  him  ;  on  the  stairs  he  stopped. 

247 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

'  And  is  she  very  much  upset  ? '  he  asked  me, 
pulling  his  cap  over  his  eyes. 

'  Very,  very  much  !  .  .  .' 

'  Poor  thing  !  Console  her,  Nikolai ;  you  love 
her,  you  know.' 

'  Yes,  I  have  grown  fond  of  her,  certainly.  .  .  .' 
You  love   her,'   repeated    Kolosov,  and  he 
looked  me  straight  in  the  face.     I  turned  away 
without  a  word,  and  we  separated. 

On  reaching  home,  I  was  in  a  perfect  fever. 

'  I  have  done  my  duty,'  I  thought ;  '  I  have 
overcome  my  own  egoism  ;  I  have  urged 
Andrei  to  go  back  to  Varia  !  .  .  .  Now  I  am  in 
the  right ;  he  that  will  not  when  he  may  .  .  . ! ' 
At  the  same  time  Andrei's  indifference  wounded 
me.  He  had  not  been  jealous  of  me,  he  told 
me  to  console  her.  .  .  .  But  is  Varia  such  an 
ordinary  girl,  is  she  not  even  worthy  of 
sympathy?  .  .  .  There  are  people  who  know 
how  to  appreciate  what  you  despise,  Andrei 
Nikolaitch !  .  .  .  But  what 's  the  good  ?  She 
does  not  love  me.  .  .  .  No,  she  does  not  love 
me  now,  while  she  has  not  quite  lost  hope  of 
Kolosov's  return.  .  .  .  But  afterwards  .  .  .  who 
knows,  my  devotion  will  touch  her.  I  will 
make  no  claims.  ...  I  will  give  myself  up  to 
her  wholly,  irrevocably.  .  .  .  Varia!  is  it  pos- 
sible you  will  not  love  me  ?  .  .  .  never  !  .  .  . 
never !  .  .  . 

248 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

Such  were  the  speeches  your  humble  servant 
was  rehearsing  in  the  city  of  Moscow,  in  the 
year  1833,  in  the  house  of  his  revered  preceptor. 
I  wept  ...  I  felt  faint.  .  .  .  The  weather  was 
horrible  ...  a  fine  rain  trickled  down  the 
window  panes  with  a  persistent,  thin,  little 
patter  ;  damp,  dark-grey  storm-clouds  hung 
stationary  over  the  town.  I  dined  hurriedly, 
made  no  response  to  the  anxious  inquiries  of 
the  kind  German  woman,  who  whimpered  a 
little  herself  at  the  sight  of  my  red,  swollen 
eyes  (Germans — as  is  well  known — are  always 
glad  to  weep).  I  behaved  very  ungraciously  to 
my  preceptor  .  .  .  and  at  once  after  dinner  set 
off  to  Ivan  Semyonitch.  .  .  .  Bent  double  in  a 
jolting  droshky,  I  kept  asking  myself  whether  I 
should  tell  Varia  all  as  it  was,  or  go  on  deceiving 
her,  and  little  by  little  turn  her  heart  from 
Andrei.  ...  I  reached  Ivan  Semyonitch's 
without  knowing  what  to  decide  upon.  ...  I 
found  all  the  family  in  the  parlour.  On  seeing 
me,  Varia  turned  fearfully  white,  but  did  not 
move  from  her  place  ;  Sidorenko  began  talking 
to  me  in  a  peculiarly  jeering  way.  I  responded 
as  best  I  could,  looking  from  time  to  time  at 
Varia,  and  almost  unconsciously  giving  a  de- 
jected and  pensive  expression  to  my  features. 
The  lieutenant  started  whist  again.  Varia 
sat  near  the  window  and  did  not  stir.     '  You  're 

249 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

dull  now,  I  suppose  ? '  Ivan  Semyonitch  asked 
her  twenty  times  over. 

At  last  I  succeeded  in  seizing  a  favourable 
opportunity. 

'You  are  alone  again,'  Varia  whispered  to 
me. 

'  Yes,'  I  answered  gloomily ;  '  and  probably 
for  long.' 

She  swiftly  drew  in  her  head. 

'Did  you  give  him  my  letter?'  she  asked  in 
a  voice  hardly  audible. 

'Yes.' 

'  Well  ?  '  .  .  .  she  gasped  for  breath.  I  glanced 
at  her.  .  .  .  There  was  a  sudden  flash  of  spiteful 
pleasure  within  me. 

'  He  told  me  to  tell  you,'  I  pronounced  de- 
liberately, 'that  "what  has  been  will  not  be 
again.  .  .  ." ' 

Varia  pressed  her  left  hand  to  her  heart, 
stretched  her  right  hand  out  in  front,  stag- 
gered, and  went  quickly  out  of  the  room.  I 
tried  to  overtake  her.  .  .  .  Ivan  Semyonitch 
stopped  me.  I  stayed  another  two  hours  with 
him,  but  Varia  did  not  appear.  On  the  way 
back  I  felt  ashamed  .  .  .  ashamed  before 
Varia,  before  Andrei,  before  myself;  though 
they  say  it  is  better  to  cut  off  an  injured  limb 
at  once  than  to  keep  the  patient  in  prolonged 
suffering;  but  who  gave  me  a  right  to  deal  such 

250 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

a  merciless  blow  at  the  heart  of  a  poor  girl  ?  .  .  . 
For  a  long  while  I  could  not  sleep  .  .  .  but  I 
fell  asleep  at  last.  In  general  I  must  repeat 
that '  love '  never  once  deprived  me  of  sleep. 

I  began  to  go  pretty  often  to  Ivan  Semyon- 
itch's.  I  used  to  see  Kolosov  as  before,  but 
neither  he  nor  I  ever  referred  to  Varia.  My 
relations  with  her  were  of  a  rather  curious  kind. 
She  became  attached  to  me  with  that  sort  of 
attachment  which  excludes  every  possibility  of 
love.  She  could  not  help  noticing  my  warm 
sympathy,  and  talked  eagerly  with  me  ...  of 
what,  do  you  suppose  ?  ...  of  Kolosov,  nothing 
but  Kolosov !  The  man  had  taken  such  pos- 
session of  her  that  she  did  not,  as  it  were, 
belong  to  herself  I  tried  in  vain  to  arouse 
her  pride  .  .  .  she  was  either  silent  or,  if  she 
talked — chattered  on  about  Kolosov.  I  did 
not  even  suspect  in  those  days  that  sorrow  of 
that  kind — talkative  sorrow — is  in  reality  far 
more  genuine  than  any  silent  suffering.  I  must 
own  I  passed  many  bitter  moments  at  that  time. 
I  was  conscious  that  I  was  not  capable  of  filling 
Kolosov's  place ;  I  was  conscious  that  Varia's 
past  was  so  full,  so  rich  .  .  .  and  her  present  so 
poor.  ...  I  got  to  the  point  of  an  involuntary 
shudder  at  the  words  '  Do  you  remember '  .  .  . 
with  which  almost  every  sentence  of  hers  began. 
She  grew  a  little  thinner  during  the  first  days 

251 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

of  our  acquaintance  .  .  .  but  afterwards  got 
better  again,  and  even  grew  cheerful  ;  she 
might  have  been  compared  then  with  a  wounded 
bird,  not  yet  quite  recovered. 

Meanwhile  my  position  had  become  insup- 
portable ;  the  lowest  passions  gradually  gained 
possession  of  my  soul ;  it  happened  to  me  to 
slander  Kolosov  in  Varia's  presence.  I  re- 
solved to  cut  short  such  unnatural  relations. 
But  how  ?  Part  from  Varia — I  could  not.  .  .  . 
Declare  my  love  to  her — I  did  not  dare ;  I 
felt  that  I  could  not,  as  yet,  hope  for  a  return. 
Marry  her.  .  .  .  This  idea  alarmed  me ;  I  was 
only  eighteen  ;  I  felt  a  dread  of  putting  all  my 
future  into  bondage  so  early ;  I  thought  of  my 
father,  I  could  hear  the  jeering  comments  of 
Kolosov's  comrades.  .  .  .  But  they  say  every 
thought  is  like  dough ;  you  have  only  to  knead 
it  well — you  can  make  anything  you  like  of 
it.  I  began,  for  whole  days  together,  to  dream 
of  marriage.  ...  I  imagined  what  gratitude 
would  fill  Varia's  heart  when  I,  the  friend  and 
confidant  of  Kolosov,  should  ofi"er  her  my  hand, 
knowing  her  to  be  hopelessly  in  love  with 
another.  Persons  of  experience,  I  remembered, 
had  told  me  that  marriage  for  love  is  a  com- 
plete absurdity ;  I  began  to  indulge  my  fancy  ; 
I  pictured  to  myself  our  peaceful  life  together 
in    some   snug   corner  of   South   Russia ;   and 

252 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

mentally  I  traced  the  gradual  transition  in 
Varia's  heart  from  gratitude  to  affection,  from 
affection  to  love.  ...  I  vowed  to  myself  at  once 
to  leave  Moscow,  the  university,  to  forget 
everything  and  every  one.  I  began  to  avoid 
meeting  Kolosov. 

At  last,  one  bright  winter  day  (Varia  had  been 
somehow  peculiarly  enchanting  the  previous 
evening),  I  dressed  myself  in  my  best,  slowly 
and  solemnly  sallied  out  from  my  room,  took 
a  first-rate  sledge,  and  drove  down  to  Ivan 
Semyonitch's.  Varia  was  sitting  alone  in  the 
drawing-room  reading  Karamzin.  On  seeing 
me  she  softly  laid  the  book  down  on  her  knees, 
and  with  agitated  curiosity  looked  into  my  face; 
I  had  never  been  to  see  them  in  the  morning 
before.  ...  I  sat  down  beside  her ;  my  heart 
beat  painfully.  'What  are  you  reading?'  I  asked 
her  at  last.  '  Karamzin.'  '  What,  are  you  tak- 
ing up  Russian  literature  ?  .  .  .'  She  suddenly 
cut  me  short.  '  Tell  me,  haven't  you  come  from 
xAindrei  ? '  That  name,  that  trembling,  question- 
ing voice,  the  half-joyful,  half-timid  expression 
of  her  face,  all  these  unmistakable  signs  of 
persistent  love,  pierced  to  my  heart  like  arrows. 
I  resolved  either  to  part  from  Varia,  or  to 
receive  from  her  herself  the  right  to  chase  the 
hated  name  of  Andrei  from  her  lips  for  ever.  I 
do  not  remember  what  I  said  to  her  ;  at  first  I 

253 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

must  have  expressed  myself  in  rather  confused 
fashion,  as  for  a  long  while  she  did  not  under- 
stand me ;  at  last  I  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  almost  shouted,  '  I  love  you,  I  want  to 
marry  you.'  '  You  love  me  ? '  said  Varia  in 
bewilderment.  I  fancied  she  meant  to  get  up, 
to  go  away,  to  refuse  me.  '  For  God's  sake,' 
I  whispered  breathlessly,  '  don't  answer  me, 
don't  say  yes  or  no  ;  think  it  over  ;  to-morrow 
I  will  come  again  for  a  final  answer.  ...  I  have 
long  loved  you.  I  don't  ask  of  you  love,  I  want 
to  be  your  champion,  your  friend ;  don't  answer 
me  now,  don't  answer.  .  .  .  Till  to-morrow.' 
With  these  words  I  rushed  out  of  the  room.  In 
the  passage  Ivan  Semyonitch  met  me,  and  not 
only  showed  no  surprise  at  my  visit,  but  posi- 
tively, with  an  agreeable  smile,  offered  me  an 
apple.  Such  unexpected  amiability  so  struck 
me  that  I  was  simply  dumb  with  amazement. 
'  Take  the  apple,  it 's  a  nice  apple,  really  ! ' 
persisted  Ivan  Semyonitch.  Mechanically  I 
took  the  apple  at  last,  and  drove  all  the  way 
home  with  it  in  my  hand. 

You  may  easily  imagine  how  I  passed  all 
that  day  and  the  following  morning.  That 
night  I  slept  rather  badly.  '  My  God !  my 
God ! '  I  kept  thinking ;  '  if  she  refuses  me ! 
...  I  shall  die.  ...  I  shall  die.  .  .  .'  I  re- 
peated wearily.     '  Yes,  she  will  certainly  refuse 

254 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

me.  .  .  .  And  why  was  I  in  such  a  hurry ! '  .  .  . 
Wishing  to  turn  my  thoughts,  I  began  to  write 
a  letter  to  my  father — a  desperate,  resolute 
letter.  Speaking  of  myself,  I  used  the  expres- 
sion 'your  son.'  Bobov  came  in  to  see  me. 
I  began  weeping  on  his  shoulder,  which  must 
have  surprised  poor  Bobov  not  a  little.  ...  I 
afterwards  learned  that  he  had  come  to  me  to 
borrow  money  (his  landlord  had  threatened  to 
turn  him  out  of  the  house)  ;  he  had  no  choice 
but  to  hook  it,  as  the  students  say.  .  .  . 

At  last  the  great  moment  arrived.  On  going 
out  of  my  room,  I  stood  still  in  the  doorway. 
'  With  what  feelings,'  thought  I,  '  shall  I  cross 
this  threshold  again  to-day  ? '  .  .  .  My  emotion 
at  the  sight  of  Ivan  Semyonitch's  little  house 
was  so  great  that  I  got  down,  picked  up  a 
handful  of  snow  and  pressed  it  to  my  face. 
'  Oh,  heavens ! '  I  thought,  *  if  I  find  Varia 
alone — I  am  lost ! '  My  legs  were  giving  way 
under  me ;  I  could  hardly  get  to  the  steps. 
Things  were  as  I  had  hoped.  I  found  Varia 
in  the  parlour  with  Matrona  Semyonovna.  I 
made  my  bows  awkwardly,  and  sat  down  by 
the  old  lady.  Varia's  face  was  rather  paler 
than  usual.  ...  I  fancied  that  she  tried  to 
avoid  my  eyes.  .  .  .  But  what  were  my  feelings 
when  Matrona  Semyonovna  suddenly  got  up 
and   went  into  the  next  room  !  .  .  .  I   began 

255 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

looking  out  of  the  window — I  was  trembling 
inwardly  like  an  autumn  leaf.  Varia  did  not 
speak.  ...  At  last  I  mastered  my  timidity, 
went  up  to  her,  bent  my  head,  .  .  . 

*  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  me  ? '  I  arti- 
culated in  a  breaking  voice. 

Varia  turned  away — the  tears  were  glistening 
on  her  eyelashes. 

'  I  see,'  I  went  on,  '  it 's  useless  for  me  to 
hope.'  .  .  . 

Varia  looked  shyly  round  and  gave  me  her 
hand  without  a  word. 

'Varia  !  '  I  cried  involuntarily  .  .  .  and 
stopped,  as  though  frightened  at  my  own 
hopes. 

'  Speak  to  papa,'  she  articulated  at  last. 

'  You  permit  me  to  speak  to  Ivan  Semyon- 
itch?'  .  .  . 

'  Yes.'  ...    I  covered  her  hands  with  kisses. 

'  Don't,  don't,'  whispered  Varia,  and  suddenly 
burst  into  tears. 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  talked  soothingly  to 
her,  wiped  away  her  tears.  .  .  .  Luckily,  Ivan 
Semyonitch  was  not  at  home,  and  Matrona  Sem- 
yonovna  had  gone  up  to  her  own  little  room. 
I  made  vows  of  love,  of  constancy  to  Varia. 
.  .  .  '  Yes,'  she  said,  suppressing  her  sobs  and 
continually  wiping  her  eyes ;  *  I  know  you 
are  a  good  man,  an  honest  man  ;  you  are  not 

256 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

like  Kolosov.'  .  .  .  '  That  name  again  ! '  thought 
I.  But  with  what  delight  I  kissed  those  warm, 
damp  little  hands  !  with  what  subdued  rapture  . 
I  gazed  into  that  sweet  face !  .  .  .  I  talked  to 
her  of  the  future,  walked  about  the  room,  sat 
down  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  hid  my  eyes 
in  my  hands,  and  shuddered  with  happiness. 
,  .  .  Ivan  Semyonitch's  heavy  footsteps  cut 
short  our  conversation.  Varia  hurriedly  got 
up  and  went  off  to  her  own  room — without, 
however,  pressing  my  hand  or  glancing  at  me. 
Mr.  Sidorenko  was  even  more  amiable  than 
on  the  previous  day :  he  laughed,  rubbed  his 
stomach,  made  jokes  about  Matrona  Semyon- 
ovna,  and  so  on.  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking 
for  his  blessing  there  and  then,  but  I  thought 
better  of  it  and  deferred  doing  so  till  the  next 
day.  His  ponderous  jokes  jarred  upon  me ; 
besides  I  was  exhausted.  ...  I  said  good-bye 
to  him  and  went  away. 

I  am  one  of  those  persons  who  love  brooding 
over  their  own  sensations,  though  I  cannot 
endure  such  persons  myself  And  so,  after  the 
first  transport  of  heartfelt  joy,  I  promptly 
began  to  give  myself  up  to  all  sorts  of  reflec- 
tions. When  I  had  got  half  a  mile  from  the 
house  of  the  retired  lieutenant,  I  flung  my 
hat  up  in  the  air,  in  excessive  delight,  and 
shouted    '  Hurrah  ! '      But   while    I  was   being 

R  257 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

jolted  through  the  long,  crooked  streets  of 
Moscow,  my  thoughts  gradually  took  another 
turn.  All  sorts  of  rather  sordid  doubts  began 
to  crowd  upon  my  mind.  I  recalled  my  con- 
versation with  Ivan  Semyonitch  about  marriage 
in  general  .  .  .  and  unconsciously  I  murmured 
to  myself, '  So  he  was  putting  it  on,  the  old  hum- 
bug ! '  It  is  true  that  I  continually  repeated, 
'  but  then  Varia  is  mine  !  mine  ! '  .  .  .  Yet  that 
'  but '  —  alas,  that  but !  —  and  then,  too,  the 
words,  '  Varia  is  mine ! '  aroused  in  me  not 
a  deep,  overwhelming  rapture,  but  a  sort  of 
paltry,  egoistic  triumph.  ...  If  Varia  had 
refused  me  point-blank,  I  should  have  been 
burning  with  furious  passion  ;  but  having  re- 
ceived her  consent,  I  was  like  a  man  who 
has  just  said  to  a  guest,  '  Make  yourself  at 
home,'  and  sees  the  guest  actually  beginning 
to  settle  into  his  room,  as  if  he  were  at  home. 
'If  she  had  loved  Kolosov,'  I  thought,  'how 
was  it  she  consented  so  soon  ?  It 's  clear  she  's 
glad  to  marry  any  one.  .  .  .  Well,  what  of  it  ? 
all  the  better  for  me.'  ...  It  was  with  such 
vague  and  curious  feelings  that  I  crossed  the 
threshold  of  my  room.  Possibly,  gentlemen, 
my  story  does  not  strike  you  as  sounding  true. 
I  don't  know  whether  it  sounds  true  or  not, 
but  I  know  that  all  I  have  told  is  the  absolute 
and  literal  truth.     However,  I  gave  myself  up 

258 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

all  that  day  to  a  feverish  gaiety,  assured  myself 
that  I  simply  did  not  deserve  such  happiness  ; 
but  next  morning  .  .  . 

A  wonderful  thing  is  sleep !  It  not  only 
renews  one's  body :  in  a  way  it  renews  one's 
soul,  restoring  it  to  primaeval  simplicity  and 
naturalness.  In  the  course  of  the  day  you 
succeed  in  tuning  yourself,  in  soaking  yourself 
in  falsity,  in  false  ideas  .  .  .  sleep  with  its  cool 
wave  washes  away  all  such  pitiful  trashiness  ; 
and  on  waking  up,  at  least  for  the  first  few 
instants,  you  are  capable  of  understanding  and 
loving  truth.  I  waked  up,  and,  reflecting  on 
the  previous  day,  I  felt  a  certain  discomfort. 
...  I  was,  as  it  were,  ashamed  of  all  my  own 
actions.  With  instinctive  uneasiness  I  thought 
of  the  visit  to  be  made  that  day,  of  my  inter- 
view with  Ivan  Semyonitch.  .  .  .  This  uneasi- 
ness was  acute  and  distressing ;  it  was  like  the 
uneasiness  of  the  hare  who  hears  the  barking 
of  the  dogs  and  is  bound  at  last  to  run  out  of 
his  native  forest  into  the  open  country  .  .  .  and 
there  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  harriers  are  await- 
ing him.  .  .  .  '  Why  was  I  in  such  a  hurry  ? ' 
I  repeated,  just  as  I  had  the  day  before,  but 
in  quite  a  different  sense.  I  remember  the 
fearful  difference  between  yesterday  and  to-day 
struck  myself;  for  the  first  time  it  occurred 
to  me  that  in  human  life  there  lie  hid  secrets 

259 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

— strange  secrets.  .  .  .  With  childish  perplexity 
I  gazed  into  this  new,  not  fantastic,  real  world. 
By  the  word  'real'  many  people  understand 
'  trivial.'  Perhaps  it  sometimes  is  so ;  but  I 
must  own  that  the  first  appearance  of  reality 
before  me  shook  me  profoundly,  scared  me, 
impressed  me.  .  .  . 

What  fine-sounding  phrases  all  about  love 
that  didn't  come  off,  to  use  Gogol's  expression  ! 
...  I  come  back  to  my  story.  In  the  course 
of  that  day  I  assured  myself  again  that  I  was 
the  most  blissful  of  mortals.  I  drove  out  of 
the  town  to  Ivan  Semyonitch's.  He  received 
me  very  gleefully  ;  he  had  been  meaning  to  go 
and  see  a  neighbour,  but  I  myself  stopped  him. 
I  was  afraid  to  be  left  alone  with  Varia.  The 
evening  was  cheerful,  but  not  reassuring.  Varia 
was  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,  neither 
cordial  nor  melancholy  .  .  .  neither  pretty  nor 
plain.  I  looked  at  her,  as  the  philosophers  say, 
objectively — that  is  to  say,  as  the  man  who  has 
dined  looks  at  the  dishes.  I  thought  her  hands 
were  rather  red.  Sometimes,  however,  my  heart 
warmed,  and  watching  her  I  gave  way  to  other 
dreams  and  reveries.  I  had  only  just  made  her 
an  offer,  as  it  is  called,  and  here  I  was  already 
feeling  as  though  we  were  living  as  husband 
and  wife  ...  as  though  our  souls  already  made 
up  one  lovely  whole,  belonged  to  one  another, 

260 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

and  consequently  were  trying  each  to  seek  out 
a  separate  path  for  itself.  .  .  . 

'  Well,  have  you  spoken  to  papa  ? '  Varia 
said  to  me,  as  soon  as  we  were  left  alone. 

This  inquiry  impressed  me  most  disagreeably. 
...  I  thought  to  myself,  '  You  're  pleased  to  be 
in  a  desperate  hurry,  Varvara  Ivanovna.' 

'  Not  yet,'  I  answered,  rather  shortly,  '  but  I 
will  speak  to  him.' 

Altogether  I  behaved  rather  casually  with 
her.  In  spite  of  my  promise,  I  said  nothing 
definite  to  Ivan  Semyonitch.  As  I  was  leav- 
ing, I  pressed  his  hand  significantly,  and  in- 
formed him  that  I  wanted  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  him  .  .  .  that  was  all.  .  .  .  '  Good- 
bye ! '  I  said  to  Varia. 

'  Till  we  meet ! '  said  she. 

I  will  not  keep  you  long  in  suspense,  gentle- 
men ;  I  am  afraid  of  exhausting  your  patience. 
.  .  .  We  never  met  again.  I  never  went  back 
to  Ivan  Semyonitch's.  The  first  days,  it  is 
true,  of  my  voluntary  separation  from  Varia 
did  not  pass  without  tears,  self-reproach,  and 
emotion ;  I  was  frightened  myself  at  the  rapid 
drooping  of  my  love  ;  twenty  times  over  I  was 
on  the  point  of  starting  off  to  see  her.  Vividly 
I  pictured  to  myself  her  amazement,  her  grief, 
her  wounded  feelings  ;  but — I  never  went  to 
Ivan   Semyonitch's  again.      In  her  absence  I 

261 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

begged  her  forgiveness,  fell  on  my  knees  before 
her,  assured  her  of  my  profound  repentance — 
and  once,  when  I  met  a  girl  in  the  street 
slightly  resembling  her,  I  took  to  my  heels 
without  looking  back,  and  only  breathed  freely 
in  a  cook-shop  after  the  fifth  jam-puff.  The 
word  *  to-morrow '  was  invented  for  irresolute 
people,  and  for  children ;  like  a  baby,  I  lulled 
myself  with  that  magic  word.  '  To-morrow  I 
will  go  to  her,  whatever  happens,'  I  said  to 
myself,  and  ate  and  slept  well  to-day.  I  began 
to  think  a  great  deal  more  about  Kolosov  than 
about  Varia  .  .  .  everywhere,  continually,  I  saw 
his  open,  bold,  careless  face.  I  began  going  to 
see  him  as  before.  He  gave  me  the  same 
welcome  as  ever.  But  how  deeply  I  felt  his 
superiority  to  me !  How  ridiculous  I  thought 
all  my  fancies,  my  pensive  melancholy,  during 
the  period  of  Kolosov's  connection  with  Varia, 
my  magnanimous  resolution  to  bring  them  to- 
gether again,  my  anticipations,  my  raptures, 
my  remorse !  .  .  .  I  had  played  a  wretched, 
drawn-out  part  of  screaming  farce,  but  he  had 
passed  so  simply,  so  well,  through  it  all.  .  .  . 
You  will  say,  '  What  is  there  wonderful  in 
that?  your  Kolosov  fell  in  love  with  a  girl, 
then  fell  out  of  love  again,  and  threw  her  over. 
.  .  .  Why,  that  happens  with  everybody.  .  .  .' 
Agreed  ;  but  which  of  us  knows  just  when  to 

262 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

break  with  our  past  ?  Which  of  us,  tell  me, 
is  not  afraid  of  the  reproaches — I  don't  mean 
of  the  woman — the  reproaches  of  every  chance 
fool  ?  Which  of  us  is  proof  against  the  tempta- 
tion of  making  a  display  of  magnanimity,  or 
of  playing  egoistically  with  another  devoted 
heart  ?  Which  of  us,  in  fact,  has  the  force  of 
character  to  be  superior  to  petty  vanity,  to 
petty  fine  feelings,  sympathy  and  self-reproach? 
.  .  .  Oh,  gentlemen,  the  man  who  leaves  a 
woman  at  that  great  and  bitter  moment  when 
he  is  forced  to  recognise  that  his  heart  is  not 
altogether,  not  fully,  hers,  that  man,  believe 
me,  has  a  truer  and  deeper  comprehension  of 
the  sacredness  of  love  than  the  faint-hearted 
creatures  who,  from  dulness  or  weakness,  go 
on  playing  on  the  half-cracked  strings  of  their 
flabby  and  sentimental  hearts  !  At  the  begin- 
ning of  my  story  I  told  you  that  we  all  con- 
sidered Andrei  Kolosov  an  extraordinary  man. 
And  if  a  clear,  simple  outlook  upon  life,  if  the 
absence  of  every  kind  of  cant  in  a  young  man, 
can  be  called  an  extraordinary  thing,  Kolosov 
deserved  the  name.  At  a  certain  age,  to  be 
natural  is  to  be  extraordinary.  ...  It  is  time  to 
finish,  though.  I  thank  you  for  your  attention. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  three  months 
after  my  last  visit  I  met  the  old  humbug 
Ivan  Semyonitch.     I  tried,  of  course,  to  glide 

263 


ANDREI   KOLOSOV 

hurriedly  and  unnoticed  by  him,  but  yet  I 
could  not  help  overhearing  the  words,  '  Feather- 
headed  scoundrels  ! '  uttered  angrily. 

'  And  what  became  of  Varia  ? '  asked  some 
one. 

'  I  don't  know,'  answered  the  story-teller. 

We  all  got  up  and  separated. 

1864. 


264 


A    CORRESPONDENCE 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

A  FEW  years  ago  I  was  in  Dresden.  I  was 
staying  at  an  hotel.  From  early  morning  till 
late  evening  I  strolled  about  the  town,  and  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  make  acquaintance 
with  my  neighbours ;  at  last  it  reached  my 
ears  in  some  chance  way  that  there  was  a 
Russian  in  the  hotel — lying  ill.  I  went  to  see 
him,  and  found  a  man  in  galloping  consumption. 
I  had  begun  to  be  tired  of  Dresden  ;  I  stayed 
with  my  new  acquaintance.  It's  dull  work 
sitting  with  a  sick  man,  but  even  dulness  is 
sometimes  agreeable ;  moreover,  my  patient 
was  not  low-spirited  and  was  very  ready  to 
talk.  We  tried  to  kill  time  in  all  sorts  of  ways  ; 
we  played  '  Fools,'  the  two  of  us  together,  and 
made  fun  of  the  doctor.  My  compatriot  used 
to  tell  this  very  bald-headed  German  all  sorts 
of  fictions  about  himself,  which  the  doctor  had 
always  '  long  ago  anticipated.'  He  used  to 
mimic  his  astonishment  at  any  new,  exceptional 
symptom,  to  throw  his  medicines  out  of  window, 
and  so  on.     I  observed  more  than  once,  how- 

267 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

ever,  to  my  friend  that  it  would  be  as  well  to 
send  for  a  good  doctor  before  it  was  too  late, 
that  his  complaint  was  not  to  be  trifled  with, 
and   so   on.      But    Alexey   (my   new   friend's 

name  was    Alexey  Petrovitch   S )   always 

turned  off  my  advice  with  jests  at  the  expense 
of  doctors  in  general,  and  his  own  in  particular  ; 
and  at  last  one  rainy  autumn  evening  he 
answered  my  urgent  entreaties  with  such  a 
mournful  look,  he  shook  his  head  so  sorrow- 
fully and  smiled  so  strangely,  that  I  felt  some- 
what disconcerted.  The  same  night  Alexey 
was  worse,  and  the  next  day  he  died.  Just 
before  his  death  his  usual  cheerfulness  deserted 
him  ;  he  tossed  about  uneasily  in  his  bed,  sighed, 
looked  round  him  in  anguish  .  .  .  clutched  at 
my  hand,  and  whispered  with  an  effort,  '  But 
it's  hard  to  die,  you  know'  .  .  .  dropped  his 
head  on  the  pillow,  and  shed  tears.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  say  to  him,  and  sat  in  silence  by 
his  bed.  But  Alexey  soon  got  the  better  of 
these  last,  late  regrets.  .  .  .  '  I  say,'  he  said  to 
me,  '  our  doctor  '11  come  to-day  and  find  me 
dead.  ...  I  can  fancy  his  face.'  .  .  .  And  the 
dying  man  tried  to  mimic  him.  He  asked  me 
to  send  all  his  things  to  Russia  to  his  relations, 
with  the  exception  of  a  small  packet  which  he 
gave  me  as  a  souvenir. 

This  packet  contained  letters — a  girl's  letters 

268 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

to  Alexey,  and  copies  of  his  letters  to  her. 
There  were  fifteen  of  them.      Alexey  Petrov- 

itch  S had    known    Marya  Alexandrovna 

B long  before,  in  their  childhood,  I  fancy. 

Alexey  Petrovitch  had  a  cousin,  Marya  Alex- 
androvna had  a  sister.  In  former  years  they 
had  all  lived  together ;  then  they  had  been 
separated,  and  had  not  seen  each  other  for  a 
long  while.  Later  on,  they  had  chanced  one 
summer  to  be  all  together  again  in  the  country, 
and  they  had  fallen  in  love — Alexey's  cousin 
with  Marya  Alexandrovna,  and  Alexey  with  her 
sister.  The  summer  had  passed  by,  the  autumn 
came ;  they  parted.  Alexey,  like  a  sensible 
person,  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was 
not  in  love  at  all,  and  had  effected  a  very  satis- 
factory parting  from  his  charmer.  His  cousin 
had  continued  writing  to  Marya  Alexandrovna 
for  nearly  two  years  longer  .  .  .  but  he  too 
perceived  at  last  that  he  was  deceiving  her 
and  himself  in  an  unconscionable  way,  and  he 
too  dropped  the  correspondence. 

I  could  tell  you  something  about  Marya 
Alexandrovna,  gentle  reader,  but  you  will  find 
out  what  she  was  from  her  letters.  Alexey 
wrote  his  first  letter  to  her  soon  after  she  had 
finally  broken  with  his  cousin.  He  was  at  that 
time  in  Petersburg ;  he  went  suddenly  abroad, 
fell  ill,  and  died  at  Dresden.     I  resolved  to  print 

269 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

his  correspondence  with  Marya  Alexandrovna, 
and  trust  the  reader  will  look  at  it  with  indulg- 
ence, as  these  letters  are  not  love  -  letters — 
Heaven  forbid  !  Love-letters  are  as  a  rule  only 
read  by  two  persons  (they  read  them  over  a 
thousand  times  to  make  up),  and  to  a  third 
person  they  are  unendurable,  if  not  ridiculous. 


270 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


FROM  ALEXEY  PETROVITCH  TO  MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg,  March  7,  1840. 

Dear  Marya  Alexandrovna, — 

I  fancy  I  have  never  written  to  you  before,  and 
here  I  am  writing  to  you  now.  ...  I  have  chosen 
a  curious  time  to  begin,  haven't  I  ?  I  '11  tell  you 
what  gave  me  the  impulse.  Mon  cousin  Theo- 
dore was  with  me  to-day,  and  .  .  .  how  shall  I 
put  it  ?  .  .  .  and  he  confided  to  me  as  the  greatest 
secret  (he  never  tells  one  anything  except  as  a 
great  secret),  that  he  was  in  love  with  the 
daughter  of  a  gentleman  here,  and  that  this 
time  he  is  firmly  resolved  to  be  married,  and 
that  he  has  already  taken  the  first  step — he  has 
declared  himself!  I  made  haste,  of  course,  to 
congratulate  him  on  an  event  so  agreeable  for 
him  ;  he  has  been  longing  to  declare  himself 
for  a  great  while  .  .  .  but  inwardly,  I  must 
own,  I  was  rather  astonished.  Although  I 
knew  that  everything  was  over  between  you, 
still  I  had  fancied  ...  In  short,  I  was  sur- 
prised. I  had  made  arrangements  to  go  out 
to  see  friends  to-day,  but  I  have  stopped  at 
home  and  mean  to  have  a  little  gossip  with 
you.     If  you  do  not  care  to  listen  to  me,  fling 

271 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

this  letter  forthwith  into  the  fire.  I  warn  you 
I  mean  to  be  frank,  though  I  feel  you  are  fully 
justified  in  taking  me  for  a  rather  impertinent 
person.  Observe,  however,  that  I  would  not 
have  taken  up  my  pen  if  I  had  not  known  your 
sister  was  not  with  you  ;  she  is  staying,  so 
Theodore   told    me,   the   whole    summer   with 

your    aunt,   Madame    B .     God    give    her 

every  blessing ! 

And  so,  this  is  how  it  has  all  worked  out. 
.  .  .  But  I  am  not  going  to  offer  you  my  friend- 
ship and  all  that ;  I  am  shy  as  a  rule  of  high- 
sounding  speeches  and  '  heartfelt '  effusions.  In 
beginning  to  write  this  letter,  I  simply  obeyed  a 
momentary  impulse.  If  there  is  another  feeling 
latent  within  me,  let  it  remain  hidden  under  a 
bushel  for  the  time. 

I  'm  not  going  to  offer  you  sympathy  either. 
In  sympathising  with  others,  people  for  the 
most  part  want  to  get  rid,  as  quick  as  they 
can,  of  an  unpleasant  feeling  of  involuntary, 
egoistic  regret.  ...  I  understand  genuine,  warm 
sympathy  .  .  .  but  such  sympathy  you  would 
not  accept  from  just  any  one.  .  .  .  Do,  please, 
get  angry  with  me.  .  .  .  If  you 're  angry,  you '11 
be  sure  to  read  my  missive  to  the  end. 

But  what  right  have  I  to  write  to  you,  to  talk 
of  my  friendship,  of  my  feelings,  of  consolation  ? 
None,  absolutely  none ;  that   I   am  bound  to 

272 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

admit,  and  I  can  only  throw  myself  on  your 
kindness. 

Do  you  know  what  the  preface  of  my  letter 's 
like  ?  I  '11  tell  you  :  some  Mr.  N.  or  M.  walking 
into  the  drawing-room  of  a  lady  who  doesn't 
in  the  least  expect  him,  and  who  does,  perhaps, 
expect  some  one  else.  .  .  .  He  realises  that  he 
has  come  at  an  unlucky  moment,  but  there's 
no  help  for  it.  .  .  .  He  sits  down,  begins  talk- 
ing .  .  .  goodness  knows  what  about :  poetry, 
the  beauties  of  nature,  the  advantages  of  a  good 
education  .  .  .  talks  the  most  awful  rot,  in  fact. 
But,  meanwhile,  the  first  five  minutes  have 
gone  by,  he  has  settled  himself  comfortably  ; 
the  lady  has  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable, 
and  so  Mr.  N.  or  M.  regains  his  self-possession, 
takes  breath,  and  begins  a  real  conversation — 
to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

In  spite,  though,  of  all  this  rigmarole,  I  don't 
still  feel  quite  comfortable.  I  seem  to  see  your 
bewildered — even  rather  wrathful — face  ;  I  feel 
that  it  will  be  almost  impossible  you  should 
not  ascribe  to  me  some  hidden  motives,  and 
so,  like  a  Roman  who  has  committed  some 
folly,  I  wrap  myself  majestically  in  my  toga, 
and  await  in  silence  your  final  sentence.  .  .  . 

The  question  is  :  Will  you  allow  me  to  go  on 
writing  to  you  ? — I  remain  sincerely  and  warmly 
devoted  to  you,  Alexey  S. 

s  273 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


II 


FROM  MARYA  ALEXANDROVNA  TO  ALEXEY 
PETROVITCH 

Village  of  X ,  March  22,  1840. 

Dear  Sir, 

Alexey  Petrovitch, 

I  have  received  your  letter,  and  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  should  not  even 
have  answered  you  at  all,  if  it  had  not  been  that 
I  fancied  that  under  your  jesting  remarks  there 
really  lies  hid  a  feeling  of  some  friendliness. 
Your  letter  made  an  unpleasant  impression  on 
me.  In  answer  to  your  rigmarole,  as  you  call 
it,  let  me  too  put  to  you  one  question :  What 
for  ?  What  have  I  to  do  with  you,  or  you  with 
me  ?  I  do  not  ascribe  to  you  any  bad  motives 
...  on  the  contrary,  I  'm  grateful  for  your 
sympathy  .  .  .  but  we  are  strangers  to  each 
other,  and  I,  just  now  at  least,  feel  not  the 
slightest  inclination  for  greater  intimacy  with 
any  one  whatever. — With  sincere  esteem,  I 
remain,  etc.,  Marya  B. 


274 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


III 


FROM  ALEXEY  PETROVITCH  TO  MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg,  March  30. 

Thank  you,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  thank  you 
for  your  note,  brief  as  it  was.  All  this  time  I 
have  been  in  great  suspense ;  twenty  times  a 
day  I  have  thought  of  you  and  my  letter.  You 
can't  imagine  how  bitterly  I  laughed  at  myself; 
but  now  I  am  in  an  excellent  frame  of  mind, 
and  very  much  pleased  with  myself  Marya 
Alexandrovna,  I  am  going  to  begin  a  corre- 
spondence with  you  !  Confess,  this  was  not  at 
all  what  you  expected  after  your  answer ;  I  'm 
surprised  myself  at  my  boldness.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
don't  care,  here  goes !  But  don't  be  uneasy ; 
I  want  to  talk  to  you,  not  of  you,  but  of  myself 
It 's  like  this,  do  you  see  :  it 's  absolutely  needful 
for  me,  in  the  old-fashioned  phraseology,  to 
open  my  heart  to  some  one.  I  have  not  the 
slightest  right  to  select  you  for  my  confidant — 
agreed.  But  listen  :  I  won't  demand  of  you 
an  answer  to  my  letters ;  I  don't  even  want  to 
know  whether  you  read  my  '  rigmarole ' ;  but,  in 
the  name  of  all  that's  holy,  don't  send  my 
letters  back  to  me ! 

Let  me  tell  you,  I  am  utterly  alone  on  earth. 

275 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

In  my  youth  I  led  a  solitary  life,  though  I  never, 
I  remember,  posed  as  a  Byronic  hero ;  but  first, 
circumstances,  and  secondly,  a  faculty  of  ima- 
ginative dreaming  and  a  love  for  dreaming, 
rather  cool  blood,  pride,  indolence — a  number 
of  different  causes,  in  fact,  cut  me  off  from  the 
society  of  men.  The  transition  from  dream- 
life  to  real  life  took  place  in  me  late . . .  perhaps 
too  late,  perhaps  it  has  not  fully  taken  place  up 
to  now.  So  long  as  I  found  entertainment  in 
my  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  so  long  as  I  was 
capable  of  abandoning  myself  to  causeless  and 
unuttered  transports  and  so  on,  I  did  not  com- 
plain of  my  solitude.  I  had  no  associates ; 
I  had  what  are  called  friends.  Sometimes  I 
needed  their  presence,  as  an  electrical  machine 
needs  a  discharger — and  that  was  all.  Love 
...  of  that  subject  we  will  not  speak  for  the 
present.  But  now,  I  will  own,  now  solitude 
weighs  heavy  on  me ;  and  at  the  same  time, 
I  see  no  escape  from  my  position.  I  do  not 
blame  fate;  I  alone  am  to  blame  and  am 
deservedly  punished.  In  my  youth  I  was 
absorbed  by  one  thing — my  precious  self;  I 
took  my  simple-hearted  self-love  for  modesty  ; 
I  avoided  society — and  here  I  am  now,  a  fearful 
bore  to  myself.  What  am  I  to  do  with  myself? 
There  is  no  one  I  love ;  all  my  relations  with 
other  people  are  somehow  strained  and  false. 

276 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

And  I  've  no  memories  either,  for  in  all  my  past 
life  I  can  find  nothing  but  my  own  personality. 
Save  me.  To  you  I  have  made  no  passionate  pro- 
testations of  love.  You  I  have  never  smothered 
in  a  flood  of  aimless  babble.  I  passed  by  you 
rather  coldly,  and  it  is  just  for  that  reason  I 
make  up  my  mind  to  have  recourse  to  you  now. 
(I  have  had  thoughts  of  doing  so  before  this, 
but  at  that  time  you  were  not  free.  .  .  .) 
Among  all  my  self-created  sensations,  pleasures 
and  sufferings,  the  one  genuine  feeling  was  the 
not  great,  but  instinctive  attraction  to  you,  which 
withered  up  at  the  time,  like  a  single  ear  of 
wheat  in  the  midst  of  worthless  weeds.  ,  .  .  Let 
me  just  for  once  look  into  another  face,  into 
another  soul — my  own  face  has  grown  hateful 
to  me.  I  am  like  a  man  who  should  have  been 
condemned  to  live  all  his  life  in  a  room  with 
walls  of  looking-glass.  ...  I  do  not  ask  of  you 
any  sort  of  confessions — oh  mercy,  no  !  Bestow 
on  me  a  sister's  unspoken  symipathy,  or  at 
least  the  simple  curiosity  of  a  reader.  I  will 
entertain  you,  I  will  really. 

Meanwhile  I   have  the  honour  to  be   your 
sincere  friend,  A.  S. 


277 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


IV 


FROM  ALEXEY  PETROVITCH  TO  MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg,  April  7. 

I  am  writing  to  you  again,  though  I  foresee 
that  without  your  approval  I  shall  soon  cease 
writing.  I  must  own  that  you  cannot  but  feel 
some  distrust  of  me.  Well,  perhaps  you  are 
right  too.  In  old  days  I  should  have  triumph- 
antly announced  to  you  (and  very  likely  I 
should  have  quite  believed  my  own  words  my- 
self) that  I  had  'developed,'  made  progress, 
since  the  time  when  we  parted.  With  conde- 
scending, almost  affectionate,  contempt  I  should 
have  referred  to  my  past,  and  with  touching 
self-conceit  have  initiated  you  into  the  secrets 
of  my  real,  present  life  .  .  .  but,  now,  I  assure 
you,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  I  'm  positively 
ashamed  and  sick  to  remember  the  capers  and 
antics  cut  at  times  by  my  paltry  egoism.  Don't 
be  afraid  :  I  am  not  going  to  force  upon  you 
any  great  truths,  any  profound  views.  I  have 
none  of  them — of  those  truths  and  views.  I  have 
become  a  simple  good  fellow — really.  I  am 
bored,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  I  'm  simply  bored 
past  all  enduring.     That  is  why  I  am  writing 

278 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

to  you.  ...  I  really  believe  we  may  come  to 
be  friends.  .  .  . 

But  I  'm  positively  incapable  of  talking  to 
you,  till  you  hold  out  a  hand  to  me,  till  I  get  a 
note  from  you  with  the  one  word  '  Yes.'  Marya 
Alexandrovna,  are  you  willing  to  listen  to  me  ? 
That's  the  question. — Yours  devotedly, 

A.  S. 


279 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


V 


FROM  MARYA  ALEXANDROVNA  TO  ALEXEY 
PETROVITCH 

Village  of  X ,  April  14. 

What  a  strange  person  you  are  !     Very  well, 
then. — Yes  !  Marya  B. 


VI 

from  ALEXEY  PETROVITCH  TO  MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg,  May  2,  1840. 

Hurrah !  Thanks,  Marya  Alexandrovna, 
thanks !  You  are  a  very  kind  and  indulgent 
creature. 

I  will  begin  according  to  my  promise  to  talk 
about  myself,  and  I  shall  talk  with  a  relish 
approaching  to  appetite.  .  .  .  That 's  just  it. 
Of  anything  in  the  world  one  may  speak  with 
fire,  with  enthusiasm,  with  ecstasy,  but  with 
appetite  one  talks  only  of  oneself. 

Let  me  tell  you,  during  the  last  few  days  a 
very  strange  experience  has  befallen  me.  I 
have  for  the  first  time  taken  an  all-round  view 
of  my  past.  You  understand  me.  Every  one 
of  us  often  recalls  what  is  over — with  regret,  or 

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A   CORRESPONDENCE 

vexation,  or  simply  from  nothing  to  do.  But 
to  bend  a  cold,  clear  gaze  over  all  one's  past  life 
— as  a  traveller  turns  and  looks  from  a  high 
mountain  on  the  plain  he  has  passed  through — 
is  only  possible  at  a  certain  age  .  .  .  and  a 
secret  chill  clutches  at  a  man's  heart  when  it 
happens  to  him  for  the  first  time.  Mine,  anyway, 
felt  a  sick  pang.  While  we  are  young,  such  an 
all-round  view  is  impossible.  But  my  youth  is 
over,  and,  like  one  who  has  climbed  on  to  a 
mountain,  everything  lies  clear  before  me. 

Yes,  my  youth  is  gone,  gone  never  to  return  ! 
.  .  .  Here  it  lies  before  me,  as  it  were  in  the 
palm  of  my  hand. 

A  sorry  spectacle !  I  will  confess  to  you, 
Marya  Alexandrovna,  I  am  very  sorry  for  my- 
self. My  God  !  my  God  !  Can  it  be  that  I  have 
myself  so  utterly  ruined  my  life,  so  mercilessly 
embroiled  and  tortured  myself!  .  .  .  Now  I  have 
come  to  my  senses,  but  it 's  too  late.  Has  it 
ever  happened  to  you  to  save  a  fly  from  a  spider? 
Has  it  ?  You  remember,  you  put  it  in  the  sun  ; 
its  wings  and  legs  were  stuck  together,  glued. 
.  .  .  How  awkwardly  it  moved,  how  clumsily  it 
attempted  to  get  clear !  .  .  .  After  prolonged 
efforts,  it  somehow  gets  better,  crawls,  tries  to 
open  its  wings  .  .  .  but  there  is  no  more  frolick- 
ing for  it,  no  more  light-hearted  buzzing  in  the 
sunshine,  as  before,  when  it  was  flying  through 

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A   CORRESPONDENCE 

the  Open  window  into  the  cool  room  and  out 
again,  freely  winging  its  way  into  the  hot  air. 
.  .  .  The  fly,  at  least,  fell  through  none  of  its 
own  doing  into  the  dreadful  web  .  .  .  but  I ! 

I  have  been  my  own  spider ! 

And,  at  the  same  time,  I  cannot  greatly  blame 
myself.  Who,  indeed,  tell  me,  pray,  is  ever  to 
blame  for  anything — alone?  Or,  to  put  it  better, 
we  are  all  to  blame,  and  yet  we  can't  be  blamed. 
Circumstances  determine  us;  they  shove  us  into 
one  road  or  another,  and  then  they  punish  us 
for  it.  Every  man  has  his  destiny.  .  .  .  Wait  a 
bit,  wait  a  bit !  A  cleverly  worked-out  but  true 
comparison  has  just  come  into  my  head.  As 
the  clouds  are  first  condensed  from  the  vapours 
of  earth,  rise  from  out  of  her  bosom,  then 
separate,  move  away  from  her,  and  at  last  bring 
her  prosperity  or  ruin  :  so,  about  every  one  of  us, 
and  out  of  ourselves,  is  fashioned — how  is  one 
to  express  it? — is  fashioned  a  sort  of  element, 
which  has  afterwards  a  destructive  or  saving 
influence  on  us.  This  element  I  call  destiny. 
.  .  .  In  other  words,  and  speaking  simply, 
every  one  makes  his  own  destiny  and  destiny 
makes  every  one  .  .  . 

Every  one  makes  his  destiny — yes !  .  .  .  but 
people  like  us  make  it  too  much — that 's  what 's 
wron^  with  us !  Consciousness  is  awakened  too 
early  in  us  ;  too  early  we  begin  to  keep  watch 

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A   CORRESPONDENCE 

on  ourselves.  .  .  .  We  Russians  have  set 
ourselves  no  other  task  in  life  but  the  culti- 
vation of  our  own  personality,  and  when  we  're 
children  hardly  grown-up  we  set  to  work  to 
cultivate  it,  this  luckless  personality  !  Receiving 
no  definite  guidance  from  without,  with  no  real 
respect  for  anything,  no  strong  belief  in  any- 
thing, we  are  free  to  make  what  we  choose  of 
ourselves  .  .  .  one  can't  expect  every  one  to 
understand  on  the  spot  the  uselessness  of 
intellect  *  seething  in  vain  activity '  .  .  .  and  so 
we  get  again  one  monster  the  more  in  the  world, 
one  more  of  those  worthless  creatures  in  whom 
habits  of  self-consciousness  distort  the  very 
striving  for  truth,  and  a  ludicrous  simplicity 
exists  side  by  side  with  a  pitiful  duplicity  .  .  . 
one  of  those  beings  of  impotent,  restless  thought 
who  all  their  lives  know  neither  the  satisfaction 
of  natural  activity,  nor  genuine  suffering,  nor 
the  genuine  thrill  of  conviction.  .  .  .  Mixing 
up  together  in  ourselves  the  defects  of  all  ages, 
we  rob  each  defect  of  its  good  redeeming  side 
...  we  are  as  silly  as  children,  but  we  are  not 
sincere  as  they  are  ;  we  are  cold  as  old  people, 
but  we  have  none  of  the  good  sense  of  old  age. 
.  .  .  To  make  up,  we  are  psychologists.  Oh  yes, 
we  are  great  psychologists  !  But  our  psychology 
is  akin  to  pathology ;  our  psychology  is  that 
subtle  study  of  the  laws  of  morbid  condition 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

and  morbid  development,  with  which  healthy 
people  have  nothing  to  do.  .  .  .  And,  what  is 
'the  chief  point,  we  are  not  young,  even  in  our 
youth  we  are  not  young ! 

And  at  the  same  time — why  libel  ourselves  ? 
Were  we  never  young,  did  we  never  know  the 
play,  the  fire,  the  thrill  of  life's  forces  ?  We  too 
have  been  in  Arcady,  we  too  have  strayed  about 
her  bright  meadows !  .  .  .  Have  you  chanced, 
strolling  about  a  copse,  to  come  across  those 
dark  grasshoppers  which,  jumping  up  from 
under  your  very  feet,  suddenly  with  a  whirring 
sound  expand  bright  red  wings,  fly  a  few  yards, 
and  then  drop  again  into  the  grass?  So  our 
dark  youth  at  times  spread  its  particoloured 
wings  for  a  few  moments  and  for  no  long  flight. 
.  .  .  Do  you  remember  our  silent  evening  walks, 
the  four  of  us  together,  beside  your  garden 
fence,  after  some  long,  warm,  spirited  con- 
versation? Do  you  remember  those  blissful 
moments  ?  Nature,  benign  and  stately,  took  us 
to  her  bosom.  We  plunged,  swooning,  into  a 
flood  of  bliss.  All  around,  the  sunset  with  a 
sudden  and  soft  flush,  the  glowing  sky,  the 
earth  bathed  in  light,  everything  on  all  sides 
seemed  full  of  the  fresh  and  fiery  breath  of 
youth,  the  joyous  triumph  of  some  deathless 
happiness.  The  sunset  flamed  ;  and,  like  it,  our 
rapturous  hearts  burned  with  soft  and  passionate 

284 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

fire,  and  the  tiny  leaves  of  the  young  trees 
quivered  faintly  and  expectantly  over  our  heads, 
as  though  in  response  to  the  inward  tremor  of 
vague  feelings  and  anticipations  in  us.  Do  you 
remember  the  purity,  the  goodness  and  trustful- 
ness of  ideas,  the  softening  of  noble  hopes,  the 
silence  of  full  hearts  ?  Were  we  not  really  then 
worth  something  better  than  what  life  has 
brought  us  to  ?  Why  was  it  ordained  for  us 
only  at  rare  moments  to  see  the  longed-for 
shore,  and  never  to  stand  firmly  on  it,  never  to 
touch  it : 

'  Never  to  weep  with  joy,  like  the  first  Jew 
Upon  the  border  of  the  promised  land' ! 

These  two  lines  of  Fet's  remind  me  of  others, 
also  his.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  once,  as  we 
stood  in  the  highroad,  we  saw  in  the  distance  a 
cloud  of  pink  dust,  blown  up  by  the  light  breeze 
against  the  setting  sun  ?  '  In  an  eddying  cloud,' 
you  began,  and  we  were  all  still  at  once  to 
listen  : 

'In  an  eddying  cloud 
Dust  rises  in  the  distance  .  .  . 
Rider  or  man  on  foot 
Is  seen  not  in  the  dust. 

I  see  some  one  trotting 
On  a  gallant  steed  .  .  . 
Friend  of  mine,  friend  far  away, 
Think  !  oh,  think  of  me  ! ' 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

You  ceased  ...  we  all  felt  a  shudder  pass 
over  us,  as  though  the  breath  of  love  had  flitted 
over  our  hearts,  and  each  of  us — I  am  sure  of 
it — felt  irresistibly  drawn  into  the  distance,  the 
unknown  distance,  where  the  phantom  of  bliss 
rises  and  lures  through  the  mist.  And  all  the 
while,  observe  the  strangeness  ;  why,  one 
wonders,  should  we  have  a  yearning  for  the 
far  away  ?  Were  we  not  in  love  with  each 
other  ?  Was  not  happiness  '  so  close,  so  pos- 
sible'? As  I  asked  you  just  now:  why  was  it 
we  did  not  touch  the  longed-for  shore  ?  Be- 
cause falsehood  walked  hand  in  hand  with  us  ; 
because  it  poisoned  our  best  feelings  ;  because 
everything  in  us  was  artificial  and  strained ; 
because  we  did  not  love  each  other  at  all, 
but  were  only  trying  to  love,  fancying  we 
loved.  .  .  . 

But  enough,  enough  !  why  inflame  one's 
wounds  ?  Besides,  it  is  all  over  and  done 
with.  What  was  good  in  our  past  moved  me, 
and  on  that  good  I  will  take  leave  of  you  for 
a  while.  It 's  time  to  make  an  end  of  this 
long  letter.  I  am  going  out  for  a  breath  here 
of  the  May  air,  in  which  spring  is  breaking 
through  the  dry  fastness  of  winter  with  a  sort 
of  damp,  keen  warmth.     Farewell. — Yours, 

A.  S. 


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A   CORRESPONDENCE 


VII 


FROM   MARYA    ALEXANDROVNA  TO  ALEXEY 
PETROVITCH 

Village  of  X ,Afay  1840. 

I  have  received  your  letter,  Alexey  Petro- 
vitch,  and  do  you  know  what  feeling  it  aroused 
in  me  ? — indignation  .  .  .  yes,  indignation  .  .  . 
and  I  will  explain  to  you  at  once  why  it 
aroused  just  that  feeling  in  me.  It's  only 
a  pity  I  'm  not  a  great  hand  with  my  pen ;  I 
rarely  write,  and  am  not  good  at  expressing  my 
thoughts  precisely  and  in  few  words.  But  you 
will,  I  hope,  come  to  my  aid.  You  must  try, 
on  your  side,  to  understand  me,  if  only  to  find 
out  why  I  am  indignant  with  you. 

Tell  me — you  have  brains — have  you  ever 
asked  yourself  what  sort  of  creature  a  Russian 
woman  is  ?  what  is  her  destiny  ?  her  position  in 
the  world — in  short,  what  is  her  life  ?  I  don't 
know  if  you  have  had  time  to  put  this  question 
to  yourself;  I  can't  picture  to  myself  how  you 
would  answer  it.  ...  I  should,  perhaps,  in  con- 
versation be  capable  of  giving  you  my  ideas  on 
the  subject,  but  on  paper  I  am  scarcely  equal 
to  it.  No  matter,  though.  This  is  the  point : 
you  will  certainly  agree  with  me  that  we 
women,  those  of  us  at  least  who  are  not  satis- 

287 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

fied  with  the  common  interests  of  domestic  life, 
receive  our  final  education,  in  any  case,  from 
you  men  :  you  have  a  great  and  powerful 
influence  on  us.  Now,  consider  what  you  do 
to  us.  I  am  talking  about  young  girls,  especi- 
ally those  who,  like  me,  live  in  the  wilds,  and 
there  are  very  many  such  in  Russia.  Besides, 
I  don't  know  anything  of  others  and  cannot 
judge  of  them.  Picture  to  yourself  such  a  girl. 
Her  education,  suppose,  is  finished  ;  she  begins 
to  live,  to  enjoy  herself.  But  enjoyment  alone 
is  not  much  to  her.  She  demands  much  from 
life,  she  reads,  and  dreams  ...  of  love.  Always 
nothing  but  love !  you  will  say.  .  .  .  Suppose 
so ;  but  that  word  means  a  great  deal  to  her. 
I  repeat  that  I  am  not  speaking  of  a  girl  to 
whom  thinking  is  tiresome  and  boring.  .  .  .  She 
looks  round  her,  is  waiting  for  the  time  when 
he  will  come  for  whom  her  soul  yearns.  ...  At 
last  he  makes  his  appearance — she  is  captivated ; 
she  is  wax  in  his  hands.  All — happiness  and 
love  and  thought — all  have  come  with  a  rush 
together  with  him  ;  all  her  tremors  are  soothed, 
all  her  doubts  solved  by  him.  Truth  itself  seems 
speaking  by  his  lips.  She  venerates  him,  is  over- 
awed at  her  own  happiness,  learns,  loves.  Great 
is  his  power  over  her  at  that  time !  ...  If  he 
were  a  hero,  he  would  fire  her,  would  teach  her 
to  sacrifice  herself,  and  all  sacrifices  would  be 

288 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

easy  to  her !  But  there  are  no  heroes  in  our 
times.  .  .  .  Anyway,  he  directs  her  as  he 
pleases.  She  devotes  herself  to  whatever 
interests  him,  every  word  of  his  sinks  into  her 
soul.  She  has  not  yet  learned  how  worth- 
less and  empty  and  false  a  word  may  be,  how 
little  it  costs  him  who  utters  it,  and  how  little 
it  deserves  belief !  After  these  first  moments  of 
bliss  and  hope  there  usually  comes — through 
circumstances  —  (circumstances  are  always  to 
blame) — there  comes  a  parting.  They  say 
there  have  been  instances  of  two  kindred  souls, 
on  getting  to  know  one  another,  becoming  at 
once  inseparably  united  ;  I  have  heard  it  said, 
too,  that  things  did  not  always  go  smoothly  with 
them  in  consequence  .  .  .  but  of  what  I  have 
not  seen  myself  I  will  not  speak, — and  that  the 
pettiest  calculation,  the  most  pitiful  prudence, 
can  exist  in  a  youthful  heart,  side  by  side  with 
the  most  passionate  enthusiasm — of  that  I  have 
to  my  sorrow  had  practical  experience.  And 
so,  the  parting  comes.  .  .  .  Happy  the  girl  who 
realises  at  once  that  it  is  the  end  of  everything, 
who  does  not  beguile  herself  with  expectations  ! 
But  you,  valorous,  just  men,  for  the  most  part, 
have  not  the  pluck,  nor  even  the  desire,  to  tell 
us  the  truth.  ...  It  is  less  disturbing  for  you 
to  deceive  us.  .  .  .  However,  I  am  ready  to 
believe  that  you  deceive  yourselves  together 
T  289 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

with  US.  .  .  .  Parting  !  To  bear  separation  is 
both  hard  and  easy.  If  only  there  be  perfect, 
untouched  faith  in  him  whom  one  loves,  the 
soul  can  master  the  anguish  of  parting.  ...  I 
will  say  more.  It  is  only  then,  when  she  is  left 
alone,  that  she  finds  out  the  sweetness  of  soli- 
tude— not  fruitless,  but  filled  with  memories  and 
ideas.  It  is  only  then  that  she  finds  out  her- 
self, comes  to  her  true  self,  grows  strong.  ...  In 
the  letters  of  her  friend  far  away  she  finds  a 
support  for  herself ;  in  her  own,  she,  very  likely 
for  the  first  time,  finds  full  self-expression.  .  .  . 
But  as  two  people  who  start  from  a  stream's 
source,  along  opposite  banks,  at  first  can  touch 
hands,  then  only  communicate  by  voice,  and 
finally  lose  sight  of  each  other  altogether ;  so 
two  natures  grow  apart  at  last  by  separation. 
Well,  what  then  ?  you  will  say ;  it 's  clear  they 
were  not  destined  to  be  together.  .  .  .  But 
herein  the  difference  between  a  man  and  a 
woman  comes  out.  For  a  man  it  means 
nothing  to  begin  a  new  life,  to  shake  off  all 
his  past ;  a  woman  cannot  do  this.  No,  she 
cannot  fling  off  her  past,  she  cannot  break 
away  from  her  roots  —  no,  a  thousand  times 
no !  And  now  begins  a  pitiful  and  ludicrous 
spectacle.  .  .  .  Gradually  losing  hope  and  faith 
in  herself — and  how  bitter  that  is  you  cannot 
even   imagine ! — she   pines   and  wears    herself 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

out  alone,  obstinately  clinging  to  her  memories 
and  turning  away  from  everything  that  the 
life  around  offers  her.  ,  .  .  But  he?  Look 
for  him  !  where  is  he  ?  And  is  it  worth  his 
while  to  stand  still  ?  When  has  he  time  to  look 
round  ?  Why,  it 's  all  a  thing  of  the  past  for  him. 
Or  else  this  is  what  happens :  it  happens  that 
he  feels  a  sudden  inclination  to  meet  the  former 
object  of  his  feelings,  that  he  even  makes  an 
excursion  with  that  aim.  .  .  .  But,  mercy  on 
us  !  the  pitiful  conceit  that  leads  him  into  doing 
that !  In  his  gracious  sympathy,  in  his  would- 
be  friendly  advice,  in  his  indulgent  explanation 
of  the  past,  such  consciousness  of  his  superiority 
is  manifest !  It  is  so  agreeable  and  cheering 
for  him  to  let  himself  feel  every  instant — what  a 
clever  person  he  is,  and  how  kind  !  And  how 
little  he  understands  what  he  has  done  !  How 
clever  he  is  at  not  even  guessing  what  is  passing 
in  a  woman's  heart,  and  how  offensive  is  his 
compassion  if  he  does  guess  it !  .  .  . 

Tell  me,  please,  where  is  she  to  get  strength 
to  bear  all  this  ?  Recollect  this,  too :  for  the 
most  part,  a  girl  in  whose  brain — to  her  mis- 
fortune— thought  has  begun  to  stir,  such  a  girl, 
when  she  begins  to  love,  and  falls  under  a 
man's  influence,  inevitably  grows  apart  from 
her  family,  her  circle  of  friends.  She  was  not, 
even  before  then,  satisfied  with  their  life,  though 

291 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

she  moved  in  step  with  them,  while  she  treasured 
all  her  secret  dreams  in  her  soul.  .  .  .  But  the 
discrepancy  soon  becomes  apparent,  .  .  .  They 
cease  to  comprehend  her,  and  are  ready  to  look 
askance  at  everything  she  does.  ...  At  first 
this  is  nothing  to  her,  but  afterwards,  after- 
wards .  .  .  when  she  is  left  alone,  when  what 
she  was  striving  towards,  for  which  she  had  sacri- 
ficed everything — when  heaven  is  not  gained 
while  everything  near,  everything  possible,  is 
lost — what  is  there  to  support  her  ?  Jeers,  sly 
hints,  the  vulgar  triumph  of  coarse  common- 
sense,  she  could  still  endure  somehow  .  .  .  but 
what  is  she  to  do,  what  is  to  be  her  refuge,  when 
an  inner  voice  begins  to  whisper  to  her  that 
all  of  them  are  right  and  she  was  wrong,  that 
life,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  better  than  dreams, 
as  health  is  better  than  sickness  .  .  .  when  her 
favourite  pursuits,  her  favourite  books,  grow 
hateful  to  her,  books  out  of  which  there  is  no 
reading  happiness — what,  tell  me,  is  to  be  her 
support  ?  Must  she  not  inevitably  succumb  in 
such  a  struggle  ?  how  is  she  to  live  and  to  go 
on  living  in  such  a  desert  ?  To  know  oneself 
beaten  and  to  hold  out  one's  hand,  like  a  beggar, 
to  persons  quite  indifferent,  for  them  to  bestow 
the  sympathy  which  the  proud  heart  had  once 
fancied  it  could  well  dispense  with — all  that 
would    be    nothing  !       But    to    feel    yourself 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

ludicrous  at  the  very  instant  when  you  are 
shedding  bitter,  bitter  tears  .  .  .  O  God,  spare 
such  suffering !  .  .  . 

My  hands  are  trembling,  and  I  am  quite  in 
a  fever.  .  .  .  My  face  burns.  It  is  time  to 
stop.  ...  I  '11  send  off  this  letter  quickly,  before 
I  'm  ashamed  of  its  feebleness.  But  for  God's 
sake,  in  your  answer  not  a  word — do  you  hear? — 
not  a  word  of  sympathy,  or  I  '11  never  write  to 
you  again.  Understand  me  :  I  should  not  like 
you  to  take  this  letter  as  the  outpouring  of  a 
misunderstood  soul,  complaining.  .  .  .  Ah !  I 
don't  care  ! — Good-bye.  M. 


293 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

VIII 

FROM  ALEXEY  PETROVITCH  TO  MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg,  May  28,  1840. 

Marya  Alexandrovna,  you  are  a  splendid 
person  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  your  letter  revealed  the 
truth  to  me  at  last !  My  God  !  what  suffering  ! 
A  man  is  constantly  thinking  that  now  at  last 
he  has  reached  simplicity,  that  he 's  no  longer 
showing  off,  humbugging,  lying  .  .  .  but  when 
you  come  to  look  at  him  more  attentively,  he 's 
become  almost  worse  than  before.  And  this, 
too,  one  must  remark  :  the  man  himself,  alone 
that  is,  never  attains  this  self-recognition,  try 
as  he  will ;  his  eyes  cannot  see  his  own  defects, 
just  as  the  compositor's  wearied  eyes  cannot 
see  the  slips  he  makes  ;  another  fresh  eye  is 
needed  for  that.  My  thanks  to  you,  Marya 
Alexandrovna.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  speak  to  you 
of  myself ;  of  you  I  dare  not  speak.  .  .  .  Ah, 
how  absurd  my  last  letter  seems  to  me  now,  so 
flowery  and  sentimental !  I  beg  you  earnestly, 
go  on  with  your  confession.  I  fancy  you,  too, 
will  be  the  better  for  it,  and  it  will  do  me  great 
good.  It's  a  true  saying:  'A  woman's  wit's 
better  than  many  a  reason,'  and  a  woman's 
heart 's  far  and  away — by  God,  yes  !     If  women 

294 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

knew  how  much  better,  nobler,  and  wiser  they 
are  than  men — yes,  wiser — they  would  grow 
conceited  and  be  spoiled.  But  happily  they 
don't  know  it ;  they  don't  know  it  because  their 
intelligence  isn't  in  the  habit  of  turning  in- 
cessantly upon  themselves,  as  with  us.  They 
think  very  little  about  themselves — that 's  their 
weakness  and  their  strength  ;  that 's  the  whole 
secret — I  won't  say  of  our  superiority,  but  of 
our  power.  They  lavish  their  soul,  as  a  pro- 
digal heir  does  his  father's  gold,  while  we  exact 
a  percentage  on  every  worthless  morsel.  .  .  . 
How  are  they  to  hold  their  own  with  us  ?  .  .  . 
All  this  is  not  compliments,  but  the  simple 
truth,  proved  by  experience.  Once  more,  I 
beseech  you,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  go  on 
writing  to  me.  ...  If  you  knew  all  that  is 
coming  into  my  brain !  .  .  .  But  I  have  no 
wish  now  to  speak,  I  want  to  listen  to  you. 
My  turn  will  come  later.  Write,  write. — Your 
devoted,  A.  S. 


295 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


IX 


FROM   MARYA  ALEXANDROVNA   TO   ALEXEY 
PETROVITCH 

Village  of  X ^June  12,  1840. 

I  had  hardly  sent  off  my  last  letter  to  you, 
Alexey  Petrovitch,  when  I  regretted  it;  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it  then.  One  thing 
reassures  me  somewhat :  I  am  sure  you  realised 
that  it  was  under  the  influence  of  feelings  long 
ago  suppressed  that  it  was  written,  and  you 
excused  me.  I  did  not  even  read  through,  at 
the  time,  what  I  had  written  to  you  ;  I  remem- 
ber my  heart  beat  so  violently  that  the  pen 
shook  in  my  fingers.  However,  though  I 
should  probably  have  expressed  myself  differ- 
ently if  I  had  allowed  myself  time  to  reflect,  I 
don't  mean,  all  the  same,  to  disavow  my  own 
words,  or  the  feelings  which  I  described  to  you 
as  best  I  could.  To-day  I  am  much  cooler  and 
far  more  self-possessed. 

I  remember  at  the  end  of  my  letter  I  spoke 
of  the  painful  position  of  a  girl  who  is  con- 
scious of  being  solitary,  even  among  her  own 
people.  ...  I  won't  expatiate  further  upon 
them,  but  will  rather  tell  you  a  few  instances  ; 
I  think  I  shall  bore  you  less  in  that  way. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  let  me  tell  you  that 

296 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

all  over  the  country-side  I  am  never  called 
anything  but  the  female  philosopher.  The 
ladies  especially  honour  me  with  that  name. 
Some  assert  that  I  sleep  with  a  Latin  book 
in  my  hand,  and  in  spectacles  ;  others  declare 
that  I  know  how  to  extract  cube  roots,  what- 
ever they  may  be.  Not  a  single  one  of  them 
doubts  that  I  wear  manly  apparel  on  the  sly, 
and  instead  of  '  good-morning,'  address  people 
spasmodically  with  '  Georges  Sand  ! ' — and  in- 
dignation grows  apace  against  the  female 
philosopher.  We  have  a  neighbour,  a  man 
of  five-and-forty,  a  great  wit  ...  at  least, 
he  is  reputed  a  great  wit  ...  for  him  my 
poor  personality  is  an  inexhaustible  subject 
of  jokes.  He  used  to  tell  of  me  that  directly 
the  moon  rose  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  it, 
and  he  will  mimic  the  way  in  which  I  gaze  at  it ; 
and  declares  that  I  positively  take  my  coffee 
with  moonshine  instead  of  with  milk — that 's  to 
say,  I  put  my  cup  in  the  moonlight.  He  swears 
that  I  use  phrases  of  this  kind — '  It  is  easy  be- 
cause it  is  difficult,  though  on  the  other  hand  it 
is  difficult  because  it  is  easy.'  .  .  .  He  asserts 
that  I  am  always  looking  for  a  word,  always 
striving  '  thither,'  and  with  comic  rage  inquires  : 
'  whither — thither  ?  whither  ? '  He  has  also 
circulated  a  story  about  me  that  I  ride  at  night 
up  and  down  by  the  river,  singing  Schubert's 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

Serenade,    or    simply    moaning,    '  Beethoven, 
Beethoven ! '      She    is,   he   will    say,   such    an 
impassioned   old   person,   and    so   on,  and   so 
on.     Of  course,  all  this  comes  straight  to  me. 
This  surprises  you,  perhaps.     But  do  not  for- 
get that  four   years    have   passed   since   your 
stay  in  these  parts.     You  remember  how  every 
one  frowned  upon  us  in  those  days.     Their  turn 
has  come  now.     And  all  that,  too,  is  no  con- 
sequence.    I   have  to  hear   many  things   that 
wound  my  heart  more  than  that.     I  won't  say 
anything  about  my  poor,  good  mother's  never 
having  been  able  to  forgive  me  for  your  cousin's 
indifference  to  me.     But  my  whole  life  is  burn- 
ing away  like  a  house  on   fire,  as    my  nurse 
expresses   it.      '  Of  course,'    I    am    constantly 
hearing,  '  we   can't   keep    pace   with   you !  we 
are  plain  people,  we  are  guided   by  nothing 
but  common-sense.     Though,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  what  have  all  these  metaphysics, 
and  books,  and  intimacies  with  learned  folks 
brought  you  to  ? '     You  perhaps  remember  my 
sister — not  the  one  to  whom  you  were  once 
not  indifferent — but  the  other  elder  one,  who 
is  married.     Her  husband,  if  you  recollect,  is 
a    simple    and     rather     comic     person  ;    you 
often  used  to  make  fun  of  him  in  those  days. 
But  she 's  happy,  after  all ;  she  's  the  mother 
of  a  family,  she's    fond  of  her  husband,  her 

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A   CORRESPONDENCE 

husband  adores  her.  .  .  .  '  I  am  like  every  one 
else,'  she  says  to  me  sometimes,  '  but  you  ! ' 
And  she 's  right ;  I  envy  her.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  I  feel  I  should  not  care  to  change 
with  her,  all  the  same.  Let  them  call  me  a 
female  philosopher,  a  queer  fish,  or  what  they 
choose — I  will  remain  true  to  the  end  ...  to 
what  ?  to  an  ideal,  or  what  ?  Yes,  to  my  ideal. 
Yes,  I  will  be  faithful  to  the  end  to  what  first 
set  my  heart  throbbing — to  what  I  have  re- 
cognised, and  recognise  still,  as  truth,  and  good. 
.  .  .  If  only  my  strength  does  not  fail  me,  if 
only  my  divinity  does  not  turn  out  to  be  a 
dumb  and  soulless  idol !  .  .  . 

If  you  really  feel  any  friendship  for  me,  if 
you  have  really  not  forgotten  me,  you  ought 
to  aid  me,  you  ought  to  solve  my  doubts,  and 
strengthen  my  convictions.  .  .  . 

Though  after  all,  what  help  can  you  give 
me?  'All  that's  rubbish,  fiddle-faddle,'  was 
said  to  me  yesterday  by  my  uncle — I  think 
you  don't  know  him — a  retired  naval  officer, 
a  very  sensible  man  ;  '  husband,  children,  a  pot 
of  soup ;  to  look  after  the  husband  and  children 
and  keep  an  eye  on  the  pot — that 's  what  a 
woman  wants.'  .  .  .  Tell  me,  is  he  right  ? 

If  he  really  is  right,  I  can  still  make  up 
for  the  past,  I  can  still  get  into  the  common 
groove.     Why  should  I  wait  any  longer  ?  what 

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A   CORRESPONDENCE 

have  I  to  hope  for?  In  one  of  your  letters 
you  spoke  of  the  wings  of  youth.  How  often 
— how  long  they  are  tied  !  And  later  on  comes 
the  time  when  they  fall  off,  and  there  is  no 
rising  above  earth,  no  flying  to  heaven  any 
more.     Write  to  me. — Yours,  M. 


300 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


X 


FROM  ALEXEY  PETROVITCH  TO  MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg,  y^^;/^  i6,  1840. 

I  hasten  to  answer  your  letter,  dear  Marya 
Alexandrovna.  I  will  confess  to  you  that  if 
it  were  not  ...  I  can't  say  for  business,  for  I 
have  none  ...  if  it  were  not  that  I  am  stupidly 
accustomed  to  this  place,  I  should  have  gone 
off  to  see  you  again,  and  should  have  talked 
to  my  heart's  content,  but  on  paper  it  all  comes 
out  cold  and  dead.  .  .  . 

Marya  Alexandrovna,  I  tell  you  again,  women 
are  better  than  men,  and  you  ought  to  prove 
this  in  practice.  Let  such  as  us  fling  away  our 
convictions,  like  cast-off  clothes,  or  abandon 
them  for  a  crust  of  bread,  or  lull  them  into 
an  untroubled  sleep,  and  put  over  them — as 
over  the  dead,  once  dear  to  us — a  gravestone, 
at  which  to  come  at  rare  intervals  to  pray — 
let  us  do  all  this ;  but  you  women  must  not 
be  false  to  yourselves,  you  must  not  be  false 
to  your  ideal.  .  .  .  That  word  has  become 
ridiculous.  .  .  .  To  fear  being  ridiculous  —  is 
not  to  love  truth.  It  happens,  indeed,  that 
the  senseless  laughter  of  the  fool  drives  even 
good  men  into  giving  up  a  great  deal  ...  as, 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

for  instance,  the  defence  of  an  absent  friend. 
.  .  .  I  have  been  guilty  of  that  myself.  But, 
I  repeat,  you  women  are  better  than  we.  .  .  . 
In  trifling  matters  you  give  in  sooner  than  we  ; 
but  you  know  how  to  face  fearful  odds  better 
than  we.  I  don't  want  to  give  you  either  advice 
or  help — how  should  I  ?  besides,  you  have  no 
need  of  it.  But  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  you  ; 
I  say  to  you.  Have  patience,  struggle  on  to 
the  end  ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  that,  as  a  senti- 
ment, the  consciousness  of  an  honestly  sus- 
tained struggle  is  almost  higher  than  the 
triumph  of  victory.  .  .  .  Victory  does  not 
depend  on  ourselves.  Of  course  your  uncle  is 
right  from  a  certain  point  of  view  ;  family  life 
is  everything  for  a  woman  ;  for  her  there  is  no 
other  life. 

But  what  does  that  prove  ?  None  but  Jesuits 
will  maintain  that  any  means  are  good  if  only 
they  attain  the  end.  It's  false!  it's  false! 
Feet  sullied  with  the  mud  of  the  road  are  un- 
worthy to  go  into  a  holy  temple.  At  the  end 
of  your  letter  is  a  phrase  I  do  not  like  ;  you 
want  to  get  into  the  common  groove  ;  take 
care,  don't  make  a  false  step  !  Besides — do  not 
forget, — there  is  no  erasing  the  past ;  and  how- 
ever much  you  try,  whatever  pressure  you  put 
on  yourself,  you  will  not  turn  into  your  sister. 
You  have  reached  a  higher  level  than  she  ;  but 

^02 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

your  soul  has  been  scorched  in  the  fire,  hers 
is  untouched.  Descend  to  her  level,  stoop  to 
her,  you  can  ;  but  nature  will  not  give  up  her 
rights,  and  the  burnt  place  will  not  grow 
again.  .  .  . 

You  are  afraid — let  us  speak  plainly — you 
are  afraid  of  being  left  an  old  maid.  You  are, 
I  know,  already  twenty-six.  Certainly  the 
position  of  old  maids  is  an  unenviable  one  ; 
every  one  is  so  ready  to  laugh  at  them,  every 
one  comments  with  such  ungenerous  amuse- 
ment on  their  peculiarities  and  weaknesses. 
But  if  you  scrutinise  with  a  little  attention 
any  old  bachelor,  one  may  just  as  well  point 
the  finger  of  scorn  at  him  ;  one  will  find 
plenty  in  him,  too,  to  laugh  at.  There  's  no 
help  for  it.  There  is  no  getting  happiness  by 
struggling  for  it.  But  we  must  not  forget  that 
it 's  not  happiness,  but  human  dignity,  that 's 
the  chief  aim  in  life. 

You  describe  your  position  with  great 
humour.  I  well  understand  all  the  bitterness 
of  it ;  your  position  one  may  really  call  tragic. 
But  let  me  tell  you  you  are  not  alone  in  it ; 
there  is  scarcely  any  quite  modern  person  who 
isn't  placed  in  it.  You  will  say  that  that  makes 
it  no  better  for  you  ;  but  I  am  of  opinion  that 
suffering  in  company  with  thousands  is  quite 
a  different  matter  from  suffering  alone.     It  is 

303 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

not  a  matter  of  egoism,  but  a  sense  of  a  general 
inevitability  which  comes  in. 

All  this  is  very  fine,  granted,  you  will  say  .  .  . 
but  not  practicable  in  reality.  Why  not  prac- 
ticable ?  I  have  hitherto  imagined,  and  I  hope 
I  shall  never  cease  to  imagine,  that  in  God's 
world  everything  honest,  good,  and  true  is 
practicable,  and  will  sooner  or  later  come  to 
pass,  and  not  only  will  be  realised,  but  is 
already  being  realised.  Let  each  man  only 
hold  firm  in  his  place,  not  lose  patience,  nor 
desire  the  impossible,  but  do  all  in  his  power. 
But  I  fancy  I  have  gone  off  too  much  into  ab- 
stractions. I  will  defer  the  continuation  of  my 
reflections  till  the  next  letter  ;  but  I  cannot  lay 
down  my  pen  without  warmly,  most  warmly, 
pressing  your  hand,  and  wishing  you  from  my 
soul  all  that  is  good  on  earth. 

Yours,  A.  S. 

PS. — By  the  way,  you  say  it 's  useless  for 
you  to  wait,  that  you  have  nothing  to  hope 
for  ;  how  do  you  know  that,  let  me  ask  ? 


304 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


XI 


FROM  MARYA  ALEXANDROVNA  TO  ALEXEY 
PETROVITCH 

Village  of  X ,June  30,  1840. 

How  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your  letter, 
Alexey  Petrovitch !  How  much  good  it  did 
me  !  I  see  you  really  are  a  good  and  trust- 
worthy man,  and  so  I  shall  not  be  reserved 
with  you.  I  trust  you.  I  know  you  would 
make  no  unkind  use  of  my  openness,  and 
will  give  me  friendly  counsel.  Here  is  the 
question. 

You  noticed  at  the  end  of  my  letter  a  phrase 
which  you  did  not  quite  like.  I  will  tell  what 
it  had  reference  to.  There  is  one  of  the  neigh- 
bours here  ...  he  was  not  here  when  you 
were,  and  you  have  not  seen  him.  He  ...  I 
could  marry  him  if  I  liked ;  he  is  still  young, 
well-educated,  and  has  property.  There  are 
no  difficulties  on  the  part  of  my  parents ;  on 
the  contrary,  they — I  know  for  a  fact — desire 
this  marriage.  He  is  a  good  man,  and  I  think 
he  loves  me  .  .  .  but  he  is  so  spiritless  and 
narrow,  his  aspirations  are  so  limited,  that  I 
cannot  but  be  conscious  of  my  superiority  to 
him.  He  is  aware  of  this,  and  as  it  were  re- 
joices in  it,  and  that  is  just  what  sets  me 
u  305 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

against  him.  I  cannot  respect  him,  though 
he  has  an  excellent  heart.  What  am  I  to  do  ? 
tell  me  !  Think  for  me  and  write  me  your 
opinion  sincerely. 

But  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your 
letter !  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  have  been  haunted 
at  times  by  such  bitter  thoughts.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know,  I  had  come  to  the  point  of  being  almost 
ashamed  of  every  feeling — not  of  enthusiasm 
only,  but  even  of  faith  ;  I  used  to  shut  a  book 
with  vexation  whenever  there  was  anything 
about  hope  or  happiness  in  it,  and  turned  away 
from  a  cloudless  sky,  from  the  fresh  green  of 
the  trees,  from  everything  that  was  smiling  and 
joyful.  What  a  painful  condition  it  was  !  I 
say,  was  ...  as  though  it  were  over  ! 

I  don't  know  whether  it  is  over ;  I  know 
that  if  it  does  not  return  I  am  indebted  to 
you  for  it.  Do  you  see,  Alexey  Petrovitch, 
how  much  good  you  have  done,  perhaps, 
without  suspecting  it  yourself!  By  the  way, 
do  you  know  I  feel  very  sorry  for  you  ?  We 
are  now  in  the  full  blaze  of  summer,  the  days 
are  exquisite,  the  sky  blue  and  brilliant.  ...  It 
couldn't  be  lovelier  in  Italy  even,  and  you  are 
staying  in  the  stifling,  baking  town,  and  walk- 
ing on  the  burning  pavement.  What  induces 
you  to  do  so  ?  You  might  at  least  move  into 
some  summer  villa  out   of  town.      They   say 

306 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

there  are  bright  spots  at  Peterhof,  on  the  sea- 
coast. 

I  should  like  to  write  more  to  you,  but  it 's 
impossible.  Such  a  sweet  fragrance  comes  in 
from  the  garden  that  I  can't  stay  indoors.  I 
am  going  to  put  on  my  hat  and  go  for  a  walk. 
.  .  .  Good-bye  till  another  time,  good  Alexey 
Petrovitch.     Yours  devotedly,  M.  B. 

PS. — I  forgot  to  tell  you  .  .  .  only  fancy, 
that  witty  gentleman,  about  whom  I  wrote  to 
you  the  other  day,  has  made  me  a  declaration 
of  love,  and  in  the  most  ardent  terms.  I 
thought  at  first  he  was  laughing  at  me ;  but  he 
finished  up  with  a  formal  proposal — what  do 
you  think  of  him,  after  all  his  libels !  But  he 
is  positively  too  old.  Yesterday  evening,  to 
tease  him,  I  sat  down  to  the  piano  before  the 
open  window,  in  the  moonlight,  and  played 
Beethoven.  It  was  so  nice  to  feel  its  cold  light 
on  my  face,  so  delicious  to  fill  the  fragrant 
night  air  with  the  sublime  music,  through 
which  one  could  hear  at  times  the  singing  of  a 
nightingale.  It  is  long  since  I  have  been  so 
happy.  But  write  to  me  about  what  I  asked 
you  at  the  beginning  of  my  letter ;  it  is  very 
important. 


307 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


XII 

FROM   ALEXEY  PETROVITCH   TO   MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

St.  Petersburg, /2^/k  8,  1840. 
Dear  Marya  Alexandrovna, — Here  is 
my  opinion  in  a  couple  of  words  :  both  the  old 
bachelor  and  the  young  suitor — overboard  with 
them  both  !  There  is  no  need  even  to  consider 
it.  Neither  of  them  is  worthy  of  you — that 's  as 
clear  as  that  twice  two  makes  four.  The  young 
neighbour  is  very  likely  a  good-natured  person, 
biit  that 's  enough  about  him  !  I  am  convinced 
that  there  is  nothing  in  common  between  him 
and  you,  and  you  can  fancy  how  amusing  it 
would  be  for  you  to  live  together !  Besides, 
why  be  in  a  hurry  ?  Is  it  a  possible  thing  that 
a  woman  like  you — I  don't  want  to  pay  com- 
pliments, and  that 's  why  I  don't  expatiate 
further — that  such  a  woman  should  meet  no 
one  who  would  be  capable  of  appreciating  her  ? 
No,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  listen  to  me,  if  you 
really  believe  that  I  am  your  friend,  and  that 
my  advice  is  of  use.  But  confess,  it  was  agree- 
able to  see  the  old  scoffer  at  your  feet.  ...  If 
I  had  been  in  your  place,  I  'd  have  kept  him 
singing  Beethoven's  Adelaida  and  gazing  at  the 
moon  the  whole  night  long. 

308^ 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

Enough  of  them,  though,  —  your  adorers  ! 
It 's  not  of  them  I  want  to  talk  to  you  to-day. 
I  am  in  a  strange,  half-irritated,  half-emotional 
state  of  mind  to-day,  in  consequence  of  a  letter 
I  got  yesterday.  I  am  enclosing  a  copy  of 
it  to  you.  This  letter  was  written  by  one  of 
my  friends  of  long  ago,  a  colleague  in  the 
service,  a  good-natured  but  rather  limited 
person.  He  went  abroad  two  years  ago,  and 
till  now  has  not  written  to  me  once.  Here  is 
his  letter. — N.B.  He  is  very  good-looking. 

'  Cher  Alexis, — I  am  in  Naples,  sitting  at 
the  window  in  my  room,  in  Chiaja.  The 
weather  is  superb.  I  have  been  staring  a  long 
while  at  the  sea,  then  I  was  seized  with  impa- 
tience, and  suddenly  the  brilliant  idea  entered 
my  head  of  writing  a  letter  to  you.  I  always 
felt  drawn  to  you,  my  dear  boy  —  on  my 
honour  I  did.  And  so  now  I  feel  an  inclina- 
tion to  pour  out  my  soul  into  your  bosom  .  .  . 
that 's  how  one  expresses  it,  I  believe,  in  your 
exalted  language.  And  why  I  've  been  over- 
come with  impatience  is  this.  I  'm  expecting 
a  friend — a  woman  ;  we  're  going  together  to 
Baiae  to  eat  oysters  and  oranges,  and  see  the 
tanned  shepherds  in  red  caps  dance  the  taran- 
tella, to  bask  in  the  sun,  like  lizards — in  short, 
to  enjoy  life  to  the  utmost.     My  dear  boy,  I 

309 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

am  more  happy  than  I  can  possibly  tell  you. 
If  only  I  had  your  style — oh!  what  a  picture 
I  would  draw  for  you !  But  unfortunately,  as 
you  are  aware,  I  'm  an  illiterate  person.  The 
woman  I  am  expecting,  and  who  has  kept  me 
now  more  than  a  hour  continually  starting  and 
looking  at  the  door,  loves  me — but  how  I  love 
her  I  fancy  even  your  fluent  pen  could  not 
describe. 

'  I  must  tell  you  that  it  is  three  months  since 
I  got  to  know  her,  and  from  the  very  first  day 
of  our  acquaintance  my  love  mounts  continu- 
ally crescendo,  like  a  chromatic  scale,  higher 
and  higher,  and  at  the  present  moment  I  am 
simply  in  the  seventh  heaven.  I  jest,  but  in 
reality  my  devotion  to  this  woman  is  some- 
thing extraordinary,  supernatural.  Fancy,  I 
scarcely  talk  to  her,  I  can  do  nothing  but  stare 
at  her,  and  laugh  like  a  fool.  I  sit  at  her  feet, 
I  feel  that  I  'm  awfully  silly  and  happy,  simply 
inexcusably  happy.  It  sometimes  happens 
that  she  lays  her  hand  on  my  head.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  tell  you,  simply  .  .  .  But  there,  you  can't 
understand  it ;  you  're  a  philosopher  and  always 
were  a  philosopher.  Her  name  is  Nina, 
Ninetta,  as  you  like  ;  she 's  the  daughter  of  a 
rich  merchant  here.  Fine  as  any  of  your 
Raphaels  ;  fiery  as  gunpowder,  gay,  so  clever 
that   it's   amazing   how   she   can    care    for    a 

310 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

fool  like  me ;    she  sings  like  a  bird,  and  her 
eyes  .  .  . 

*  Please  excuse  this  unintentional  break.  .  .  . 
I  fancied  the  door  creaked.  .  .  .  No,  she 's  not 
coming  yet,  the  heartless  wretch !  You  will 
ask  me  how  all  this  is  going  to  end,  and  what 
I  intend  to  do  with  myself,  and  whether  I  shall 
stay  here  long  ?  I  know  nothing  about  it,  my 
boy,  and  I  don't  want  to.  What  will  be,  will 
be.  .  .  .  Why,  if  one  were  to  be  for  ever  stop- 
ping and  considering  .  .  . 

'  She !  .  .  .  she 's  running  up  the  staircase, 
singing.  .  .  .  She  is  here.  Well,  my  boy, 
good-bye.  ...  I  've  no  time  for  you  now, 
I  'm  so  sorry.  She  has  bespattered  the  whole 
letter ;  she  slapped  a  wet  nosegay  down  on  the 
paper.  For  the  first  moment,  she  thought  I 
was  writing  to  a  woman  ;  when  she  knew  that 
it  was  to  a  friend,  she  told  me  to  send  her 
greetings,  and  ask  you  if  you  have  any  flowers, 
and  whether  they  are  sweet  ?  Well,  good-bye. 
.".  .  If  you  could  hear  her  laughing.  Silver 
can't  ring  like  it ;  and  the  good-nature  in  every 
note  of  it — you  want  to  kiss  her  little  feet  for 
it.  We  are  going,  going.  Don't  mind  the 
untidy  smudges,  and  envy  yours,  M.' 

The  letter  was  in  fact  bespattered  all  over, 
and  smelt  of  orange-blossom   .  .  .   two  white 

311 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

petals  had  stuck  to  the  paper.  This  letter 
has  agitated  me.  ...  I  remember  my  stay  in 
Naples.  .  .  .  The  weather  was  magnificent 
then  too — May  was  just  beginning  ;  I  had  just 
reached  twenty-two  ;  but  I  knew  no  Ninetta. 
I  sauntered  about  alone,  consumed  with  a 
thirst  for  bliss,  at  once  torturing  and  sweet, 
so  sweet  that  it  was,  as  it  were,  like  bliss  itself. 
.  .  .  Ah,  what  is  it  to  be  young !  .  .  .  I  remember 
I  went  out  once  for  a  row  in  the  bay.  There  were 
two  of  us ;  the  boatman  and  I  .  .  .  what  did 
you  imagine  ?  What  a  night  it  was,  and  what 
a  sky,  what  stars,  how  they  quivered  and  broke 
on  the  waves !  with  what  delicate  flame  the 
water  flashed  and  glimmered  under  the  oars, 
what  delicious  fragrance  filled  the  whole  sea — 
I  cannot  describe  this,  '  eloquent '  though  my 
style  may  be.  In  the  harbour  was  a  French 
ship  of  the  line.  It  was  all  red  with  lights  ; 
long  streaks  of  red,  the  reflection  of  the  lighted 
windows,  stretched  over  the  dark  sea.  The 
captain  of  the  ship  was  giving  a  ball.  The 
gay  music  floated  across  to  me  in  snatches  at 
long  intervals.  I  recall  in  particular  the  trill 
of  a  little  flute  in  the  midst  of  the  deep  blare 
of  the  trumpets ;  it  seemed  to  flit,  like  a 
butterfly,  about  my  boat.  I  bade  the  man 
row  to  the  ship ;  twice  he  took  me  round  it. 
.    .    .    I    caught   glimpses   at   the   windows   of 

312 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

women's  figures,  borne  gaily  round  in  the  whirl- 
wind of  the  waltz.  ...  I  told  the  boatman  to 
row  away,  far  away,  straight  into  the  darkness. 
...  I  remember  a  long  while  the  music  per- 
sistently pursued  me,  ...  At  last  the  sounds 
died  away.  I  stood  up  in  the  boat,  and  in  the 
dumb  agony  of  desire  stretched  out  my  arms 
to  the  sea.  .  .  .  Oh  !  how  my  heart  ached  at 
that  moment !  How  bitter  was  my  loneliness 
to  me  !  With  what  rapture  would  I  have  aban- 
doned myself  utterly  then,  utterly  .  .  .  utterly, 
if  there  had  been  any  one  to  abandon  myself  to  ! 
With  what  a  bitter  emotion  in  my  soul  I  flung 
myself  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and, 
like  Repetilov,  asked  to  be  taken  anywhere, 
anywhere  away !  But  my  friend  here  has 
experienced  nothing  like  that.  And  why 
should  he  ?  He  has  managed  things  far  more 
wisely  than  I.  He  is  living  .  .  .  while  I  .  .  . 
He  may  well  call  me  a  philosopher.  .  .  . 
Strange !  they  call  you  a  philosopher  too.  .  .  . 
What  has  brought  this  calamity  on  both  of 
us? 

I  am  not  living.  .  .  .  But  who  is  to  blame  for 
that  ?  Why  am  I  staying  on  here,  in  Peters- 
burg ?  what  am  I  doing  here  ?  why  am  I 
wearing  away  day  after  day?  why  don't  I  go 
into  the  country?  What  is  amiss  with  our 
steppes  ?  has  not  one  free  breathing  space  in 

313 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

them  ?  is  one  cramped  in  them  ?  A  strange 
craze  to  pursue  dreams,  when  happiness  is 
perhaps  within  reach!  Resolved  !  I  am  going, 
going  to-morrow,  if  I  can.  I  am  going  home — 
that  is,  to  you, — it 's  just  the  same  ;  we  're 
only  twenty  versts  from  one  another.  Why, 
after  all,  grow  stale  here !  And  how  was  it 
this  idea  did  not  strike  me  sooner?  Dear 
Marya  Alexandrovna,  we  shall  soon  see  each 
other.  It 's  extraordinary,  though,  that  this 
idea  never  entered  my  head  before !  I  ought 
to  have  gone  long,  long  ago.  Good-bye  till 
we  meet,  Marya  Alexandrovna. 


July  9. 

I  purposely  gave  myself  twenty-four  hours 
for  reflection,  and  am  now  absolutely  convinced 
that  I  have  no  reason  to  stay  here.  The  dust 
in  the  streets  is  so  penetrating  that  my  eyes 
are  bad.  To-day  I  am  beginning  to  pack,  the 
day  after  to-morrow  I  shall  most  likely  start, 
and  within  ten  days  I  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you.  I  trust  you  will  welcome  me 
as  in  old  days.  By  the  way,  your  sister  is  still 
staying  at  your  aunt's,  isn't  she  ? 

Marya  Alexandrovna,  let  me  press  your  hand 
warmly,  and  say  from  my  heart.  Good-bye 
till  we  meet.     I  had  been  getting  ready  to  go 

314 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

away,  but  that  letter  has  hastened  my  project. 
Supposing  the  letter  proves  nothing,  suppos- 
ing even  Ninetta  would  not  please  any  one 
else,  me  for  instance,  still  I  am  going ;  that 's 
decided  now.     Till  we  meet,  yours, 

A.  S. 


315 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


XIII 


FROM  MARYA  ALEXANDROVNA  TO  ALEXEY 
PETROYITCH 

Village  of  X ^July  i6,  1840. 

You  are  coming  here,  Alexey  Petrovitch, 
you  will  soon  be  with  us,  eh  ?  I  will  not  con- 
ceal from  you  that  this  news  both  rejoices  and 
disturbs  me.  .  .  .  How  shall  we  meet  ?  Will 
the  spiritual  tie  persist  which,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  has  sprung  up  between  us  ?  Will  it  not  be 
broken  by  our  meeting  ?  I  don't  know  ;  I  feel 
somehow  afraid.  I  will  not  answer  your  last 
letter,  though  I  could  say  much  ;  I  am  putting 
it  all  off  till  our  meeting.  My  mother  is  very 
much  pleased  at  your  coming.  .  .  .  She  knew 
I  was  corresponding  with  you.  The  weather 
is  delicious  ;  we  will  go  a  great  many  walks, 
and  I  will  show  you  some  new  places  I  have 
discovered.  ...  I  especially  like  one  long, 
narrow  valley  ;  it  lies  between  hillsides  covered 
with  forest.  ...  It  seems  to  be  hiding  in  their 
windings.  A  little  brook  courses  through  it, 
scarcely  seeming  to  move  through  the  thick 
grass  and  flowers.  .  .  .  You  shall  see.  Come  : 
perhaps  you  will  not  be  bored. 

M.  B. 


316 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

P.S. — I  think  you  will  not  see  my  sister ; 
she  is  still  staying  at  my  aunt's.  I  fancy  (but 
this  is  between  ourselves)  she  is  going  to  marry 
a  very  agreeable  young  man — an  officer.  Why 
did  you  send  me  that  letter  from  Naples  ? 
Life  here  cannot  help  seeming  dingy  and  poor 
in  contrast  with  that  luxuriance  and  splendour. 
But  Mademoiselle  Ninetta  is  wrong ;  flowers 
grow  and  smell  sweet — with  us  too. 


317 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


XIV 


FROM  MARYA  ALEXANDROVNA  TO  ALEXEY 
PETROVITCH 

Village  of  X ,  January  1841. 

I  have  written  to  you  several  times,  Alexey 
Petrovitch  .  .  .  you  have  not  answered.  Are 
you  living  ?  Or  perhaps  you  are  tired  of  our 
correspondence  ;  perhaps  you  have  found  your- 
self some  diversion  more  agreeable  than  what 
can  be  afforded  for  you  by  the  letters  of  a  pro- 
vincial young  lady.  You  remembered  me,  it 
is  easy  to  see,  simply  from  want  of  anything 
better  to  do.  If  that 's  so,  I  wish  you  all  happi- 
ness. If  you  do  not  even  now  answer  me,  I 
will  not  trouble  you  further.  It  only  remains 
for  me  to  regret  my  indiscretion  in  having 
allowed  myself  to  be  agitated  for  nothing,  in 
having  held  out  a  hand  to  a  friend,  and  having 
come  for  one  minute  out  of  my  lonely  corner. 
I  must  remain  in  it  for  ever,  must  lock  myself 
up — that  is  my  apportioned  lot,  the  lot  of  all 
old  maids.  I  ought  to  accustom  myself  to  this 
idea.  It's  useless  to  come  out  into  the  light 
of  day,  needless  to  wish  for  fresh  air,  when  the 
lungs  cannot  bear  it.  By  the  way,  we  are  now 
hemmed  in  all  round  by  deadly  drifts  of  snow. 
For  the  future  I    will    be   wiser.    .  .  .    People 

318 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

don't  die  of  dreariness  ;  but  of  misery,  perhaps, 
one  might  perish.  If  I  am  wrong,  prove  it  to 
me.  But  I  fancy  I  am  not  wrong.  In  any 
case,  good-bye.     I  wish  you  all  happiness. 

M.  B. 


319 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 


XV 

FROM   ALEXEY   PETROVlTCH   TO   MARYA 
ALEXANDROVNA 

Dresden,  September  1842. 

I  am  writing  to  you,  my  dear  Marya  Alex- 
androvna,  and  I  am  writing  only  because  I  do 
not  want  to  die  without  saying  good-bye  to 
you,  without  recalling  myself  to  your  memory. 
I  am  given  up  by  the  doctors  .  .  .  and  I  feel 
myself  that  my  life  is  ebbing  away.  On  my 
table  stands  a  rose :  before  it  withers,  I  shall 
be  no  more.  This  comparison  is  not,  however, 
altogether  an  apt  one.  A  rose  is  far  more 
interesting  than  I. 

I  am,  as  you  see,  abroad.  It  is  now  six 
months  since  I  have  been  in  Dresden.  I  re- 
ceived your  last  letters  —  I  am  ashamed  to 
confess — more  than  a  year  ago.  I  lost  some 
of  them  and  never  answered  them.  ...  I  will 
tell  you  directly  why.  But  it  seems  you  were 
always  dear  to  me  ;  to  no  one  but  you  have  I 
any  wish  to  say  good-bye,  and  perhaps  I  have 
no  one  else  to  take  leave  of 

Soon  after  my  last  letter  to  you  (I  was  on 
the  very  point  of  going  down  to  your  neigh- 
bourhood, and  had  made  various  plans  in 
advance)  an  incident  occurred  which  had,  one 

•^20 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

may  truly  say,  a  great  influence  on  my  fate, 
so  great  an  influence  that  here  I  am  dying, 
thanks  to  that  incident.  I  went  to  the  theatre 
to  see  a  ballet.  I  never  cared  for  ballets  ;  and 
for  every  sort  of  actress,  singer,  and  dancer  I 
had  always  had  a  secret  feeling  of  repulsion. 
.  .  .  But  it  is  clear  there  's  no  changing  one  's 
fate,  and  no  one  knows  himself,  and  one  cannot 
foresee  the  future.  In  reality,  in  life  it 's  only 
the  unexpected  that  happens,  and  we  do 
nothing  in  a  whole  lifetime  but  accommodate 
ourselves  to  facts.  .  .  .  But  I  seem  to  be  ram- 
bling off  into  philosophising  again.  An  old 
habit !  In  brief,  I  fell  in  love  with  a  dancing- 
girl. 

This  was  the  more  curious  as  one  could  not 
even  call  her  a  beauty.  It  is  true  she  had 
marvellous  hair  of  ashen  gold  colour,  and  great 
clear  eyes,  with  a  dreamy,  and  at  the  same 
time  daring,  look  in  them.  .  .  .  Could  I  fail 
to  know  the  expression  of  those  eyes  ?  For  a 
whole  year  I  was  pining  and  swooning  in  the 
light — of  them !  She  was  splendidly  well- 
made,  and  when  she  danced  her  national 
dance  the  audience  would  stamp  and  shout 
with  delight.  .  .  .  But,  I  fancy,  no  one  but  I 
fell  in  love  with  her, — at  least,  no  one  was  in 
love  with  her  as  I  was.  From  the  very  minute 
when  I  saw  her  for  the  first  time  (would  you 
X  321 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

believe  It,  I  have  only  to  close  my  eyes,  and  at 
once  the  theatre  is  before  me,  the  almost  empty 
stage,  representing  the  heart  of  a  forest,  and 
she  running  in  from  the  wing  on  the  right, 
with  a  wreath  of  vine  on  her  head  and  a  tiger- 
skin  over  her  shoulders) — from  that  fatal 
moment  I  have  belonged  to  her  utterly,  just  as 
a  dog  belongs  to  its  master  ;  and  if,  now  that 
I  am  dying,  I  do  not  belong  to  her,  it  is  only 
because  she  has  cast  me  off. 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  never  troubled  herself 
particularly  about  me.  She  scarcely  noticed 
me,  though  she  was  very  good-natured  in 
making  use  of  my  money.  I  was  for  her,  as 
she  expressed  it  in  her  broken  French,  '  oun 
Rousso,  boun  enfant,'  and  nothing  more.  But 
I  ...  I  could  not  live  where  she  was  not 
living ;  I  tore  myself  away  once  for  all  from 
everything  dear  to  me,  from  my  country  even, 
and  followed  that  woman. 

You  will  suppose,  perhaps,  that  she  had 
brains.  Not  in  the  least !  One  had  only  to 
glance  at  her  low  brow,  one  needed  only 
one  glimpse  of  her  lazy,  careless  smile,  to  feel 
certain  at  once  of  the  scantiness  of  her  in- 
tellectual endowments.  And  I  never  imagined 
her  to  be  an  exceptional  woman.  In  fact,  I 
never  for  one  instant  deceived  myself  about 
her.     But  that  was  of  no  avail  to  me.     What- 

322 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

ever  I  thought  of  her  in  her  absence,  in  her 
presence  I  felt  nothing  but  slavish  adoration. 
...  In  German  fairy-tales,  the  knights  often 
fall  under  such  an  enchantment.  I  could  not 
take  my  eyes  off  her  features,  I  could  never 
tire  of  listening  to  her  talk,  of  admiring  all  her 
gestures  ;  I  positively  drew  my  breath  as  she 
breathed.  However,  she  was  good-natured, 
unconstrained — too  unconstrained  indeed, — did 
not  give  herself  airs,  as  actresses  generally  do. 
There  was  a  lot  of  life  in  her — that  is,  a  lot  of 
blood,  that  splendid  southern  blood,  into  which 
the  sun  of  those  parts  must  have  infused 
some  of  its  beams.  She  slept  nine  hours  out 
of  the  twenty-four,  enjoyed  her  dinner,  never 
read  a  single  line  of  print,  except,  perhaps,  the 
newspaper  articles  in  which  she  was  men- 
tioned ;  and  almost  the  only  tender  feeling  in 
her  life  was  her  devotion  to  il  Signore 
Carlino,  a  greedy  little  Italian,  who  waited  on 
her  in  the  capacity  of  secretary,  and  whom, 
later  on,  she  married.  And  such  a  woman  I 
could  fall  in  love  with — I,  a  man,  versed  in  all 
sorts  of  intellectual  subtleties,  and  no  longer 
young !  .  .  .  Who  could  have  anticipated  it  ? 
I,  at  least,  never  anticipated  it.  I  never  anti- 
cipated the  part  I  was  to  play.  I  never  antici- 
pated that  I  should  come  to  hanging  about 
rehearsals,  waiting,  bored  and  frozen,   behind 

3^D 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

the  scenes,  breathing  in  the  smut  and  grime 
of  the  theatre,  making  friends  with  all  sorts  of 
utterly  unpresentable  persons.  .  .  .  Making 
friends,  did  I  say? — cringing  slavishly  upon 
them.  I  never  anticipated  that  I  should  carry 
a  ballet-dancer's  shawl,  buy  her  her  new  gloves, 
clean  her  old  ones  with  bread-crumbs  (I  did 
even  that,  alas!),  carry  home  her  bouquets, 
hang  about  the  offices  of  journalists  and 
editors,  waste  my  substance,  give  serenades, 
catch  colds,  wear  myself  out.  ...  I  never  ex- 
pected in  a  little  German  town  to  receive  the 
jeering  nickname  '  der  Kunst-barbar.'  .  .  .  And 
all  this  for  nothing,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
word,  for  nothing.     That 's  just  it. 

.  .  .  Do  you  remember  how  we  used,  in  talk 
and  by  letter,  to  reason  together  about  love 
and  indulge  in  all  sort  of  subtleties  ?  But  in 
actual  life  it  turns  out  that  real  love  is  a  feeling 
utterly  unlike  what  we  pictured  to  ourselves. 
Love,  indeed,  is  not  a  feeling  at  all,  it 's  a 
malady,  a  certain  condition  of  soul  and  body. 
It  does  not  develop  gradually.  One  cannot 
doubt  about  it,  one  cannot  outwit  it,  though 
it  does  not  always  come  in  the  same  way. 
Usually  it  takes  possession  of  a  person  without 
question,  suddenly,  against  his  will  —  for  all 
the  world  like  cholera  or  fever.  ...  It  clutches 
him,  poor  dear,  as  the  hawk  pounces  on  the 

324 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

chicken,  and  bears  him  off  at  its  will,  however 
he  struggles  or  resists.  ...  In  love,  there's  no 
equality,  none  of  the  so-called  free  union  of 
souls,  and  such  idealisms,  concocted  at  their 
leisure  by  German  professors.  .  .  .  No,  in  love, 
one  person  is  slave,  and  the  other  master  ;  and 
well  may  the  poets  talk  of  the  fetters  put  on 
by  love.  Yes,  love  is  a  fetter,  and  the  heaviest 
to  bear.  At  least  I  have  come  to  this  con- 
viction, and  have  come  to  it  by  the  path  of 
experience ;  I  have  bought  this  conviction  at 
the  cost  of  my  life,  since  I  am  dying  in  my 
slavery. 

What  a  life  mine  has  been,  if  you  think  of 
it !  In  my  first  youth  nothing  would  satisfy 
me  but  to  take  heaven  by  storm  for  myself 
.  .  .  Then  I  fell  to  dreaming  of  the  good  of 
all  humanity,  of  the  good  of  my  country.  Then 
that  passed  too.  I  was  thinking  of  nothing 
but  making  a  home,  family  life  for  myself 
.  .  .  and  so  tripped  over  an  ant-heap — and 
plop,  down  into  the  grave.  .  .  .  Ah,  we  're  great 
hands,  we  Russians,  at  making  such  a  finish ! 

But  it 's  time  to  turn  away  from  allthat,  it 's 
long  been  time  !  May  this  burden  be  loosened 
from  off  my  soul  together  with  life  !  I  want,  for 
the  last  time,  if  only  for  an  instant,  to  enjoy 
the  sweet  and  gentle  feeling  which  is  shed 
like  a  soft  light  within  me,  directly  I  think  of 

325 


A   CORRESPONDENCE 

you.  Your  image  is  now  doubly  precious  to 
me.  .  .  .  With  it,  rises  up  before  me  the  image 
of  my  country,  and  I  send  to  it  and  to  you  a 
farewell  greeting.  Live,  live  long  and  happily, 
and  remember  one  thing :  whether  you  remain 
in  the  wilds  of  the  steppes — where  you  have 
sometimes  been  so  sorrowful,  but  where  I 
should  so  like  to  spend  my  last  days — or 
whether  you  enter  upon  a  different  career, 
remember  life  deceives  all  but  him  who  does 
not  reflect  upon  her,  and,  demanding  nothing  of 
her,  accepts  serenely  her  few  gifts  and  serenely 
makes  the  most  of  them.  Go  forward  while 
you  can.  But  if  your  strength  fails  you,  sit  by 
the  wayside  and  watch  those  that  pass  by 
without  anger  or  envy.  They,  too,  have  not 
far  to  go.  In  old  days,  I  did  not  tell  you 
this,  but  death  will  teach  any  one.  Though 
who  says  what  is  life,  what  is  truth  ?  Do  you 
remember  who  it  was  made  no  reply  to  that 
question  ?  .  .  .  Farewell,  Marya  Alexandrovna, 
farewell  for  the  last  time,  and  do  not  re- 
member evil  against  poor  Alexey. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


UKIN 


202  Main  Library 17507 


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